“Two thousand years old and you still can’t take a compliment.”
I grin. “Is in the blood. All gladiators are bad at compliments.”
“That’s not how blood works.”
“No?” I pull her closer by our joined hands. “Then maybe is just me.”
We stand like that, hands linked, close enough to feel each other’s warmth. Her thumb traces small circles over my knuckles. I watch the movement, memorizing it.
“So Fortuna told you to keep fighting,” I say.
“Fortuna told me that displeasure isn’t ruin. That people will be angry I’m not shrinking anymore, but their anger isn’t a catastrophe.” She looks up at me. “That I need to stop confusing difficulty with death.”
“Smart goddess.”
“Terrifying goddess.” But she says it with affection. “She also said the wheel has started turning and I need to keep my shoulder to it.”
I consider that. “Fortuna’s wheel.”
“The Wheel of Chance. Or Fate. Or Fortune. Depending on the translation.” She shifts closer, and I realize we’ve been slowly gravitating toward each other this whole conversation. “I guess filing the complaint was pushing the wheel. Now it’s moving.”
“And you are ready for where it goes?”
“I don’t know where it goes.” Her gaze is steady. “But I know I’m not stopping.”
Pride flares hot in my chest. This woman. Standing in the sand with dust on her jeans and a goddess’s words in her mind, choosing to fight instead of disappear.
I want to kiss her properly. Pin her against the fence and remind her what we’re waiting for. What comes after.
Instead, I lift our joined hands and press my lips to her knuckles. “Then the wheel turns,” I say against her skin. “I turn with you.”
Her breath catches. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.” Her hand lowers between us, but I don’t let go. “I choose to.”
For a second, I think she might cry. Her eyes go bright and wet. Then she shakes her head sharply, blinking it away. “Stop being perfect. It’s annoying.”
I laugh. “I am many things. Perfect is not one.”
“Disagree.” She tugs on my hand, pulling me toward the shield rack. “Come on. Teach me how to fix these things. I want to be useful.”
“You are already useful. You file complaints and talk to goddesses.”
“I want to be useful with my hands.” She pauses, then flushes bright red. “That came out wrong.”
The innuendo hangs in the air between us. I could let it go. Be a gentle man.
But her cheeks are pink and her eyes are bright. We’ve been very good all day about respecting boundaries, and right now I want to make her laugh.
“Your hands were very useful the other night,” I say, voice dropping low. “I remember.”
Her mouth falls open. “Flavius!”
“What? Is truth.”
“You can’t just—we’re in public—” She gestures around at the empty training yard.
I lean in close, voice for her alone. “You said you wanted to be useful with your hands. I agree. Very useful. I have evidence.”
