“Only if you deserve it.”
“I’m glad to see you’re back to your normal high spirits.” He stepped closer, matching her height with an inch to spare. The scent of sandalwood clung to him and made her all too aware of how she must smell after training all morning.
Adel hesitated a moment more, then angled the bandaged arm towardhim. As much as it pained her to let him help, the cut was bleeding through the bandage. If he could just do enough to allow her to go back to the ring...
She held her breath as he gently peeled back the bandage, eyes fixed on her face rather than what he was doing. His gaze was assessing and unnerving. For a man who’d received death threats, he didn’t appear the least bit nervous. His hands were clean, nails neat and short. Her fingers tucked into fists, hiding her own chipped and dirty crescents.
He stopped at the movement. “Does it pain you?”
She shook her head, irritation flickering. Was he that attuned to her every movement? And why did he care if his ministrations pained her? That was not the way of the ludi.
He squinted. “You don’t have to pretend with me. This isn’t a contest of strength.”
“I saidno.” Did he expect her to open her mouth and pour out her deepest secrets too? Not a chance.
He moved his thumb, pressing the edge of the wound. “What about this?”
Pressure. A slight sting.
She shook her head.
He pressed harder, dark brows inching together, eyes locked on hers, searching for any hint of discomfort. “This?”
Her jaw clenched. “You cannot hurt me.”
The pressure from his thumb released in an instant. “I’m not—”
Adel pulled away. “If you are trying to find a weakness to exploit, you will not find one here.” She angled her head, peering past him to the training grounds out the window. Magnus had moved the gladiatrices into new pairs alternating between strikes, blocks, and ducking squats. She should be out there too. She was not weak. But remaining here would make it appear so.
He sighed, his breath tickling her neck. “I can’t help you if you won’t trust me.”
“I do not trust Romans.”
“Why not?”
She stared at him, incredulous. How could he not know? “You really are an idiot.”
His mouth twitched.
Was he laughing at her now? Anger flared again. “Do you find it amusing to be a fool?”
His lips dropped somewhere neutral. “It’s only that when you insult me, it’s usually a joke.”
Adel’s jaw went tight. “Romans are lying pigs.”
He poured olive oil onto a cloth and wiped the wound clean. “Such a lack of trust must make it difficult for you to hold a conversation.”
“Not at all.” She lifted a shoulder. “I simply believe the opposite of what you all say.” Even as she spoke the words, their untruth niggled at her. When had Rome ever lied? Not once had they ever offered citizenship to the Visigoth refugees and then refused to honor it. They’d refused to allow it from the very beginning, and had held to their word. The words had only rolled off her tongue because her people had repeated such things over and again—her people, who had pledged allegiance to bettering the Visigoth status and then left her and dozens of others to fall slave to the legions of Rome. And how had Rome treated her in return? Lavished her with food, clothing, a room of her own, with reverence and awe. The realization left her angrier still.
The medicus’s eyes flicked up to study her a moment before he turned to the long counter and shelves where he selected several jars and set them near a mortar and pestle.
Adel lifted her arm toward the light streaming in through the windows above the door and worktable. Begrudgingly, she had to admit hewas right about the cut. Several stitches had torn, and blood trailed down the toned curves of her arm.
“If you cannot attend the Dacian matches this time, I’m sure Jovan and the others will understand. And you will face another school in the coming weeks.” His back remained to her as he spilled herbs and oil into the bowl of the mortar, then picked up the pestle and pressed it into the mixture in circular motions.
Had this man any clue what it took to be a fighter? To be the top gladiatrix of the Ludus Gallicus? It did not come by sitting about, waiting for something like healing. If you wanted to be the best, you went out and claimed it, fighting through the pain until it was in your hands.
“We fight our greatest rivals at the Ludus Dacicus next week. If you think for a moment that I will not do my part for my fellow fighters and my school, you are the greatest fool in Rome—and that is saying something.” She jerked her arm toward him as he turned. “This is no joke. So wrap it up, or I will train without a bandage.”
