Page 42 of Thawed Gladiator: Cassius (Awakened From the Ice #3)

Chapter Forty-Two

D iana

As I stand, waiting for our new arrival, my mind flies to its favorite resting place—Cassius. It’s been a few weeks since his return. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was a new man. He’s kinder, more patient, even better with the kids than he was before, and that’s saying a lot.

I told him not to talk to me unless it was about our work, never dreaming he would comply, yet he’s kept things strictly business between us. Being honest with myself, I’ll admit, I’m a bit disappointed, although that’s crazy.

My body betrays me daily, responding to his presence like a mare in heat. When he’s working with the horses, his muscles rippling under his thin t-shirt, my mouth goes dry. The way he moves now, with such quiet grace and control, sets my pulse racing even as I try to maintain professional distance.

Sometimes I catch him watching me when he thinks I’m not looking. His gaze carries such heat, such longing, that I have to grip whatever I’m holding to stay rooted in place. My dreams are filled with memories of his touch, his kisses, his whispered praises when he moved inside me, and the way he made me feel cherished and desired. I wake up aching, my body remembering what my mind tries to forget.

This morning, he was helping Jason groom Atlas, and a bead of sweat trailed down his neck. I found my gaze following its path, remembering how his skin tasted, how he would shiver when I kissed that exact spot. The memory of his hands on my body, strong yet achingly gentle, makes me clench my thighs together even now.

But desire isn’t enough. I need more than physical attraction, more than smoldering looks and heated dreams. I need to trust, to feel safe, to know that the man I give my heart to won’t use my vulnerabilities against me. No matter how my body yearns for his touch, my mind remembers his cruel words, his arrogance, his disdain.

Still, watching him now…

My mind snaps back to the present when a car pulls up to the corral. My heart aches as I watch Alex climb out of the social worker’s car, their body language screaming defensiveness.

Oak Hill staff did a good job of sending me information that would help me work with Alex, including their identification as non-binary.

Alex is small for fifteen, with delicate features that seem at war with the tough exterior they’re trying to project. Their dark hair is cropped short on the sides but longer on top, dyed a soft lavender that brings out the amber tones in their brown eyes. Multiple piercings line their ears—clear glass retainers now, probably required by Oak Hill’s rules. They wear baggy black clothes that seem chosen to hide rather than express, but a small rainbow pin on their backpack speaks volumes about their journey.

Despite their obvious effort to appear tough and unapproachable, there’s a vulnerability in their slight frame and the way their fingers nervously play with their sleeve cuffs that makes my protective instincts surge.

After years of working with troubled teens, and having been one myself, I know that look—the hunched shoulders, the darting eyes, the way they position themselves to keep everyone in view. This kid has been through hell.

I meet them at the car, smiling, yet giving Alex space to acclimate. First rule of working with traumatized youth: let them set the pace. I’m acutely aware of Cassius by the barn, his six-foot-plus frame impossible to miss as he works. Like all the gladiators, his muscled physique and battle-hardened presence can be overwhelming to our troubled teens when they first arrive.

I keep my body language open and relaxed as I say, “Hey, Alex. I’m Diana. Would you like to meet some horses?”

Their eyes light up for a fraction of a second before their indifferent mask slips back into place. “Whatever.”

“We have several staff members who help with the horses.” My tone is casual as I carefully watch Alex’s reactions. “Including Cassius over there. He’s one of our gladiators—yes, an actual Roman gladiator. I’m sure they told you about who lives at Second Chance before you signed up. But he’s only here if you want him to be. Some of our students prefer to start with just me, and that’s absolutely fine.

Alex’s gaze darts to Cassius, then away. I see the tension rise in their shoulders, the instinctive step backward. “Maybe… maybe just you for now?”

“Of course,” I say warmly. “This is Buddy,” I continue as we enter the corral and approach our calmest horse. “He’s usually our starter horse for new students.”

Alex reaches out tentatively to stroke Buddy’s nose, and I see the first crack in their armor as the horse nuzzles their hand. They relax slightly, their focus entirely on the horse. It’s a good start.

As I demonstrate basic grooming techniques, I catch glimpses of Cassius working in the distance with a new chestnut quarter horse, Sable. He’s trying to appear busy, but I know he’s watching us. The confusion is evident in his stance, the way he keeps pausing, the slight pleating of his brow.

A pang of guilt hits me—I should have prepared him for this. Despite our personal distance, he deserved a heads-up about twenty-first-century gender identity issues before being thrown into the situation.

“You’re a natural with that brush,” I tell Alex, who’s methodically grooming Buddy’s neck. “Would you like to learn some of our training signals too?”

They nod, more enthusiastic now. “Is that what he’s doing?” They gesture vaguely toward Cassius.

My heart skips a beat at this opening. “Yes, Cassius is excellent with the horses. Would you be comfortable if I asked him to demonstrate some training techniques? Only if you want—there’s no pressure.”

Alex considers this, their brush strokes slowing. “He’s… really big.”

“He is,” I agree. “All our gladiators are. But I promise you, Cassius is like a gentle giant with the horses… and the teens in our program. Still, it’s completely your choice.”

They think about it for a moment longer. “Maybe… maybe if he stays on the other side of Buddy?”

“Of course.” I catch Cassius’s eye and wave him over. He’s attuned to our newcomers, taking special effort to walk slowly and avoid quick movements.

But then I see his expression change as he gets closer and really looks at Alex. His jaw tightens, and I know what’s coming before he speaks.

“Diana, a word?” His Latin carries an edge of confusion and displeasure.

“Actually,” I say in English, including Alex in the conversation, “I think we could all use a water break. Besides, I didn’t equip Alex with a translator yet. Alex, why don’t you grab a drink from the cooler by the barn? We’ll wait here.”

Once Alex is out of earshot, Cassius’s confusion spills out in rapid Latin. “That child—is it male or female? Why—”

“Stop,” I interrupt quietly. “I owe you an apology, Cassius. I should have explained this to you before Alex arrived. That’s my fault.” I take a deep breath, meeting his troubled gaze. “Some people know, deep in their hearts, that the body they were born in doesn’t match who they truly are. Alex was assigned female at birth, but that’s not who they are in their mind. Alex uses ‘they’ and ‘them’ instead of ‘she’ or ‘he’—it’s how they feel most comfortable and authentic.”

His brow furrows. “But that’s not possible. The gods—”

“The gods made people in all different ways,” I say gently. “Even in Rome, surely you knew people who were different from what society expected?”

He’s quiet for a moment, and I see him struggling with this, comparing it to his own experiences. Finally, he says, “When I first awoke on the Fortuna , without memory of anything—not even my name—the other gladiators accepted me despite my differences.”

“Yes,” I say softly, understanding where he’s going with this.

“Acceptance doesn’t always require complete understanding. And this child… she… he…”

“They.”

“They have faced rejection? For being who they are?”

My throat tightens at the sudden compassion in his voice. “Yes. Probably more than we can imagine.”

I watch the internal battle play out on his face—his ingrained Roman beliefs warring with his growing modern understanding. Then something shifts in his expression, and I recognize the look from when he first suggested that we create our youth program.

“Then we must show them that Second Chance lives up to its name.” His voice carries an edge of finality. “For everyone.”

For a moment, I wonder if he’s just blowing smoke, sucking up. I haven’t been blind to the way he looks at me when he thinks I don’t notice. He wants to get back with me, though that will never happen. But his compassion with Alex isn’t an act. It’s genuine concern and a growing acceptance, which is especially commendable considering so many of his beliefs are still two thousand years old.

As Alex returns, Cassius deliberately softens his stance, making himself appear less imposing. “Alex,” he says carefully, emphasizing their name, “would you like to see how we teach Buddy to respond to hand signals? You can stay on this side of the horse if you’d like.”

I translate, kicking myself that I haven’t equipped Alex with a translator yet.

The smile that breaks across Alex’s face is like the sun coming out. “Really? You’d show me?”

“Of course,” Cassius replies, and my heart swells at the warmth in his voice. “Everyone deserves to find their strength.”

As I watch them work together—Alex gradually relaxing, Cassius gently demonstrating training techniques—tears prick at my eyes. This is why I stay, despite everything that’s happened between Cassius and me. Because moments like this—watching someone grow beyond their prejudices, seeing a scared kid find acceptance—make it all worthwhile.

Cassius catches my eye across Buddy’s back and gives me a small nod. Professional, respectful, but with an understanding we didn’t have before. We both know what it’s like to feel out of place, to struggle with identity. Maybe that’s why Second Chance works—because here, everyone gets to be who they truly are, not who others expect them to be.

Even if it takes some of us longer to learn that lesson than others.