Page 15 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius (Awakened From the Ice #5)

Chapter Thirteen

R aven

The previous night feels like a distant dream, despite having ended only hours ago. After our kiss in the cemetery—that blazing moment of connection among the tombs—we’d returned to our shared room with careful politeness that fooled neither of us.

The queen bed that had seemed manageable before suddenly loomed between us like a chasm we didn’t know how to cross.

We take turns in the bathroom with elaborate courtesy, emerging in practical sleepwear that nonetheless feels charged with new significance.

I’d claimed the left side of the bed, he the right, both of us maintaining a careful border of space that might as well have been a wall.

Yet I’d remained hyperaware of his presence: the sound of his breathing, the warmth radiating from his body mere inches away, the way the mattress shifted slightly when he moved.

Sleep came in fragments, punctuated by moments of acute awareness that the man I’d kissed among the dead lay close enough to touch. By morning, we both rose with careful normalcy, neither acknowledging the tension that had stretched between us through the dark hours.

Now we sit across from each other at the small table by the French doors, steam rising from our coffee cups as we share croissants provided by our hostess.

The morning light reveals what darkness had mercifully hidden—the careful distance we’re maintaining, the way we avoid looking directly at each other.

“We should talk about last night,” I say finally, breaking the silence that’s stretched too long.

His pale eyes meet mine briefly before focusing on his coffee. “The sleeping arrangement proved… challenging.”

“That’s one way to put it.” I tear off a piece of croissant, needing something to do with my hands. “I don’t want you to think I have expectations. About what this is, or where it’s going.”

“I appreciate that.” His relief is evident. “In my time, such arrangements carried specific obligations. Contracts, essentially. I’m not certain I understand how such things work in your era.”

“Honestly? I’m not sure I do either.” The admission comes easier than expected. “There’s too much at stake here. We barely know each other.”

He nods slowly. “Perhaps it would be wise to maintain stronger boundaries until we better understand what we’re building.”

“Agreed.” Though even as I say it, my eyes trace the strong line of his jaw, the way morning light turns his skin luminous. “Boundaries.”

“Boundaries,” he repeats, but his gaze lingers on my lips just long enough to make the word feel like a challenge rather than a promise.

An hour later, the Hotel Marsden rises like a pristine wedding cake amid the weathered charm of the French Quarter.

Inside, the lobby gleams with polished marble and gilded fixtures that would make even Roman senators raise impressed eyebrows.

Lucius walks beside me, his pale features drawing curious glances despite his attempts to blend in with modern attire.

“Remember, you don’t have to say anything,” I whisper as we approach the elevator. “You’re here as my consultant, not as entertainment.”

A small smile touches his lips. “I’ve survived gladiatorial combat and two millennia frozen in ice. I believe I can manage one meeting with your patron.”

“Executive producer,” I correct automatically, though his assessment isn’t entirely wrong. David Norris does operate with the entitlement of a wealthy Roman sponsor.

The elevator doors open directly into the Royal Suite, where floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Mississippi River like a living painting.

A production team buzzes around a conference table laden with pastries and coffee.

At the head sits David Norris, his expensive suit and calculated stubble projecting casual power.

“The woman of the hour!” Norris rises, arms spread in welcome. His smile falters slightly when his gaze lands on Lucius. “And you brought your… consultant.”

“As discussed.” I keep my tone professional despite the warning bells already ringing in my head. “This is Lucius. He’ll be advising on historical accuracy regarding death rituals.”

Norris extends his hand, assessing Lucius with the practiced eye of someone who calculates human value in viewership potential. “Fascinating. Your unique appearance—is that a natural condition?”

“Yes,” Lucius answers simply, accepting the handshake without elaboration.

“Extraordinary.” Norris’s eyes gleam with opportunity. “The visual possibilities alone—”

“Are not relevant,” I interrupt firmly as I hand him one of the extra translation devices Laura provided. “Lucius is here for his knowledge, not his appearance.”

Norris recovers smoothly, gesturing toward the table. “Of course, of course. Please, join us. We have much to discuss.”

The meeting begins with standard production talk—shooting schedules, location permits, budget considerations.

I contribute where needed, conscious of Lucius observing silently beside me.

His presence feels simultaneously grounding and exposing, as though he can see through the professional veneer I’ve cultivated.

“Now, about our approach,” Norris says, leaning forward with calculated intensity. “ Beyond the Veil has always had a distinctive gothic aesthetic—your signature style, Raven. But this documentary series requires something more… authentic.”

“Authentic is my goal,” I agree cautiously.

“Exactly!” Norris snaps his fingers, enthusiasm building.

“Which is why we need to showcase your consultant’s expertise on camera.

Just imagine—” his hands frame an invisible shot “—our mysterious historian emerging from the mists at St. Louis Cemetery, sharing ancient wisdom about death rituals that have been lost to time.”

The room grows uncomfortably quiet. I feel Lucius stiffen beside me, though his expression remains impressively neutral.

“That’s not our agreement,” I remind Norris, keeping my voice steady. “Lucius provides historical context off-camera. That was non-negotiable.”

The meeting stretches longer than anticipated, Norris introducing concept after concept that we politely deflect. During breaks, I catch Lucius studying the view from the hotel windows, the Mississippi River curving like a brown snake through the city’s heart.

“The water connects everything,” he says during one pause. “Rivers were sacred to the Romans, passages between worlds. This one carries the same energy.” His perspective transforms how I see the city, adding layers of meaning I’d never considered.

When the meeting resumes, Norris’s smile tightens. “Raven, be reasonable. The network is investing millions in this project. They need compelling visual elements, not just you wandering around graveyards talking to yourself.”

“My knowledge does not require my face,” Lucius interjects in Latin. “Ms. Vaughn can effectively present the information.”

“The gladiator speaks!” Norris’s eyes light up with undisguised excitement. “The authentic Latin alone would be worth including. Perhaps voice-over work if you’re uncomfortable on camera?”

My patience fractures. “David, stop. Lucius isn’t a prop or a special effect. He’s a human being, a consultant with boundaries that we agreed to respect.”

“Boundaries limit creativity,” Norris argues, his tone hardening slightly. “This documentary isn’t just about death rituals—it’s about viewers connecting emotionally with the content. Your mysterious consultant has a compelling presence that screen tests would likely confirm.”

Beneath the table, I feel Lucius’s hand touch mine briefly—a gesture of either support or restraint, I’m not entirely sure.

The warmth of his fingers against mine sends me back to last night’s cemetery kiss, reminding me that whatever is happening between us exists beyond professional considerations.

“Tell me,” Lucius addresses Norris directly, his voice carrying that quiet authority I’ve come to recognize, “in your vision, what purpose would my appearance serve that my knowledge alone cannot?”

Norris leans back, pleased to be engaged directly. “Authenticity. Connection. Your unique perspective would be legitimized by your physical presence. Viewers crave real people with real stories.”

“Yet you wish to present me as a mysterious figure emerging from mist,” Lucius observes dryly. “That seems more theatrical than authentic.”

“The presentation may require certain artistic liberties,” Norris admits, “but the core value remains your expertise.”

I watch this exchange with growing admiration for Lucius’s composed dignity. Where I feel anger building, he maintains perfect control. I imagine it’s a skill learned through years of navigating power imbalances far more severe than this modern meeting.

“The answer remains no,” I state firmly, making my choice. “Lucius’s knowledge is available to this project. His image is not. If that’s a deal-breaker, we need to know now.”

Norris’s expression darkens momentarily before his professional mask returns.

“Not a deal-breaker… yet. But we’ll need to revisit this discussion as production progresses.

” He turns to his team with forced enthusiasm.

“Let’s move on to location scouting. The Laveau tomb access—where do we stand with permits? ”

As the meeting continues, I feel oddly lighter despite Norris’s obvious displeasure.

Choosing Lucius’s boundaries over my career ambitions should feel terrifying, yet it brings unexpected clarity.

My fingers find his under the table, and we exchange a glance loaded with understanding that transcends our different eras.

Two hours later, we escape into the humid New Orleans air, leaving behind Norris’s world of ratings and visual aesthetics. Lucius tilts his face toward the sun briefly before adjusting his protective sunglasses.

“Thank you,” he says simply.

“For what?”

“Choosing principle over opportunity. Few would make such a sacrifice—in my time or yours.”

I shake my head, surprising myself with the truth that emerges. “It wasn’t really a sacrifice. Some opportunities cost more than they’re worth.”

His smile transforms his solemn features, creating a private moment amid the bustling French Quarter.

The tension from the meeting dissipates as we step in rhythm down the uneven sidewalk, passing shops selling voodoo dolls and tarot readings—reminders that death’s mysteries have always been simultaneously sacred and commercialized.

“So,” I say, lightness returning to my voice, “now that we’ve survived corporate sharks, how about I show you the real New Orleans? There’s a cemetery in the Garden District that makes last night’s look ordinary. Oh, but before that, you can’t visit the Big Easy without eating beignets.”

“Big Easy? Beignets? Whatever they are, lead on,” he replies, the formality of the meeting room replaced by something warmer. “I find myself increasingly content to follow where you go.”

The double meaning hangs between us, unacknowledged but undeniable. Whatever boundaries we’re navigating—professional, personal, or somewhere in between—we’re choosing to cross them together.