Page 7 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius (Awakened From the Ice #5)

Chapter Six

R aven

The Second Chance Sanctuary is bathed in soft morning light as I ease through the gates, my car loaded with carefully chosen supplies.

After yesterday’s scare in the mine, I spent half the night researching—digging up specialized sunscreen, UV-protective clothing, and sunglasses designed for people with extreme light sensitivity.

I got a few hours of sleep, then visited the sporting goods store in nearby Arcadia early enough to arrive before lunchtime.

A guard at the gate—not one I recognize from my previous visit—eyes me suspiciously before calling someone on his radio. Minutes later, Laura appears, her practical clothing and no-nonsense demeanor radiating efficiency.

“Raven, right?” She extends a hand. “Lucius mentioned you might be stopping by.”

“I brought some things for him.” The explanation sounds flimsy even to my ears. “After yesterday, I realized he might need better protection from the sun.”

Laura’s expression softens slightly. “That’s… unexpectedly thoughtful. He’s in the training yard with the others.”

Following her through the compound reveals a place utterly different from what I’d imagined.

Instead of the clinical research facility portrayed in news reports, Second Chance resembles a working farm mixed with a high-end security compound.

Gardens flourish alongside training areas where men, and a few women, move through combat exercises with fluid precision.

My pulse quickens as I spot Lucius among them, his pale form unmistakable even from a distance. Despite wearing only a simple loincloth that leaves little to the imagination, he commands attention through sheer presence rather than modesty.

My mouth goes dry watching the interplay of muscle beneath his pale skin, the controlled power in every calculated movement.

The sight of him like this—primal, focused, beautiful in his lethal grace—sends heat arcing through me that has nothing to do with the morning sun.

I have to remind myself to breathe as I watch him pivot and strike, his body a study in functional strength that makes my pulse race for reasons entirely unrelated to our professional arrangement.

He moves through some kind of defensive routine with a massive partner—a mountain of a man with a huge tat on his back of what looks like an ancient Roman woman in flowing, colorful robes.

It does a fairly good job of hiding what looks like hundreds of scars, although I had to look hard to see them.

“That’s Thrax,” Laura explains, following my gaze. “He and Lucius traveled on the Fortuna together.”

Their movements look almost choreographed—beautiful despite their obvious lethality. Though outmatched in size, Lucius moves with swift, surgical precision—each motion calculated and exact.

“Impressive, aren’t they?” Laura’s voice carries pride. “Two thousand years asleep, and their muscle memory remained intact.”

Before I can respond, a harsh voice cuts through the morning air.

“Another reporter trying to turn us into circus attractions?”

A lean, hard-faced man stalks toward us, his expression twisted with contempt. Though he wears modern workout clothes like some of the others, something in his bearing separates him from the rest—an aura of authority mixed with cruelty.

“Sulla,” Laura says, her tone cooling instantly. “Raven is here as Lucius’s guest, not for a story.”

His eyes narrow as they rake over my appearance—the black clothes, the tattoos, the carefully applied makeup. “So you profit from death. How fitting that you’d seek out our resident death priest.”

The accusation is meant to demean. Before I can defend myself, Sulla turns toward the training area.

“Lucius!” he calls, his voice carrying easily across the yard. “Your… admirer has returned.”

Several gladiators pause their exercises, attention drawn to the disruption.

Lucius disengages from his sparring match, exchanging what looks like respectful words with Thrax as he steps into a pair of sweatpants, pulls a t-shirt over his head and steps into a pair of sandals before approaching us with measured strides.

“Remember how they gawked at you in the arena?” Sulla continues, deliberately stepping between us. “The Ghost—a pale curiosity for their entertainment. Some things never change.”

“That’s enough, Sulla.” The authority in Lucius’s voice surprises me. Despite his non-threatening posture, something in his tone brooks no argument.

Sulla’s lip curls in disdain. “Just reminding you of reality, priest ,” he responds in Latin, the translation flowing through the device I’ve already inserted into my ear, thanks to Laura. He emphasizes the last word like an insult before stalking away.

“Don’t mind him,” says an approaching gladiator with a booming voice and easy smile. “Sulla still thinks he’s our ludus master instead of just another gladiator who got frozen with the rest of us.”

“Flavius,” Lucius introduces with a slight nod. “This is Raven.”

“The podcast woman!” Flavius’s enthusiasm feels genuine as he shakes my hand with surprising gentleness despite his obvious strength. “Lucius mentioned your cave explorations. Much more interesting than one more boring historian asking about the texture of arena sand.”

Another gladiator approaches—older, with grizzled features and watchful eyes that seem to evaluate everything. “Quintus,” Lucius says simply. The older man nods in greeting but remains silent, his assessing gaze moving between Lucius and me with obvious curiosity.

“I brought you something,” I tell Lucius, suddenly self-conscious with so many gazes on us. I gesture toward my car. “After yesterday, I realized I hadn’t considered your light sensitivity.”

Something shifts in his expression—surprise, perhaps, that I’d thought about his specific needs. “That was… unnecessary, but appreciated.”

We walk to my car together, leaving the others behind. When I open the trunk to reveal the collection of sun-protective items, his brows lift, the hint of a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

“You researched this specifically for me?” The question carries genuine wonder.

“Of course.” The answer comes easily. “I should have thought about it before dragging you into a dark mine that could collapse and force us into sudden light.”

His fingers skim over the specialized sunglasses and the fabric of the UV-protective shirt. “Most people wouldn’t have bothered.”

“Most people are self-absorbed jerks,” I reply with a shrug. “Besides, it’s the least I could do after you shoved me out of the way of that falling beam.”

A subtle smile touches his lips. “A fair exchange, then.”

The morning sun strengthens, causing him to squint slightly. Without thinking, I hand him the sunglasses. “Try these. They’re designed specifically for conditions like yours.”

He slips them on, the immediate relief evident in the way the wrinkle between his eyes softens. “Much better than what the sanctuary provided.”

“Those look good on you,” I observe, surprised by how the sleek black frames complement his features. “Very modern badass.”

His chuckle—a sound I’ve not heard before—sends unexpected warmth through my chest.

The moment breaks when I notice Sulla watching us from the shadow of a nearby building, his expression unreadable. When our gazes meet, he doesn’t look away or pretend he wasn’t staring—just continues his cold observation with predatory focus.

“Don’t let him bother you,” Lucius says, following my gaze. “Sulla has always thrived on creating discomfort in others.”

“What’s his problem?” I keep my voice low.

“In Rome, he was our ludus master—the one who trained us, punished us, prepared us for the arena.” Lucius’s voice remains carefully neutral. “Now he finds himself equal to those he once controlled. The adjustment has been… challenging for him.”

“I can imagine.” Though I really can’t—the dynamics between these men span centuries and experiences I can barely comprehend.

We’re interrupted by approaching footsteps—Varro, whom I recognize from news coverage, accompanied by Laura. They make a striking pair, both radiating natural authority tempered with compassion.

“Showing our guest around?” Varro asks, his English perfect—impressive, considering how recently he must have learned it.

“Raven brought sun protection supplies,” Lucius explains, gesturing to the items still in my trunk. “Thoughtful.”

Something passes between Varro and Laura—a look that communicates volumes without words. “Perhaps you’d like to join us for lunch?” Laura offers. “We were just heading to the dining hall.”

The invitation surprises me. From everything I’ve read, Second Chance keeps visitors to a minimum, especially those connected to the media. Before I can formulate a response, Sulla materializes beside us, his sudden appearance making me jump.

“Careful, Varro,” he warns, his voice silky with contempt. “First, it’s lunch, then she’ll want exclusive access for her death-worshipping audience.” His gaze shifts to me. “How many subscribers would a genuine Roman death priest add to your following?”

“That’s not why I’m here,” I protest, heat rising to my cheeks.

“No?” His eyebrow rises in mock surprise. “Then perhap—”

“Enough, Sulla.” Varro’s command cuts through the tension. “Raven is welcome here as Lucius’s guest. Your concerns are noted, but hospitality remains a sanctuary value.”

Sulla’s jaw tightens, but he offers a stiff nod before retreating. As he passes Lucius, he murmurs something too low for me to catch. Whatever he says makes Lucius’s expression harden before his composed mask returns.

“I should probably go,” I say, uncomfortable with causing discord. “I just wanted to drop these things off.”

“Stay,” Lucius says simply. The single word is sincere.

“At least for lunch,” Laura adds with a diplomatic smile. “Our chef has recreated several authentic Roman dishes. I’d be interested in your perspective as someone who studies historical practices.”

The offer is tempting—not just for the rare access to the sanctuary, but for the chance to observe Lucius in his environment. To learn more about this community that exists between ancient and modern worlds.

“Thank you,” I accept. “I’d like that.”

As we walk toward the dining hall, Lucius falls into step beside me. “Sulla will not be joining us,” he says quietly. “He takes his meals separately most days.”

“What did he say to you just now?” The question slips out before I can reconsider its prying nature.

Lucius is silent for several steps before answering. “He said you’re using me. Just like they always used us.” His voice drops even lower. “He said the difference is that he admits what he is.”

The accusation stings, particularly because my initial interest had been professional. But something has shifted since that first cemetery meeting—a connection that crept past my defenses when I wasn’t looking.

“And what do you think?” I ask, my voice matching his quiet tone.

His pace slows as he considers his answer. “I think intentions can evolve. What begins as curiosity can become genuine interest. What starts as a professional opportunity can transform into personal connection.”

“Yes,” I breathe, relieved he understands. “Exactly that.”

His lifts his glasses and his gaze meets mine, searching for something. Whatever he sees must satisfy him, because he nods slightly before continuing toward the dining hall. “Then let’s see where this evolution leads us.”

As we enter the building, my gaze takes in the sanctuary’s dining hall—a spacious structure built of rough-hewn wooden planks and beams that stretch overhead to support the vaulted ceiling.

Rustic charm permeates every detail, from the hand-crafted tables arranged in long rows to the stone fireplace dominating one wall.

Large windows allow natural light to flood the space, illuminating the polished wood floors.

The connected kitchen sends aromatic hints of bread and herbs into the air, while doorways along one side lead to tutoring rooms and common areas where the gladiators gather during leisure hours.

It’s clearly the heart of sanctuary life—a place where past and present blend seamlessly.

Conversation stills for a moment as heads turn in our direction.

I spot familiar faces from news coverage—Quintus, already seated at a long table, his salt-and-pepper hair and veteran’s gaze taking everything in; Rurik, flame-haired and massive, making the chair beneath him look absurdly small; and Flavius, in full command of a rapt audience, his hands painting the air with whatever tale he’s telling.

“Welcome to our world, Raven,” Lucius says softly. “Such as it is.”

The simple invitation carries more significance than he likely intends. This sanctuary represents not just physical safety for these time-displaced men, but a bridge between worlds—ancient and modern, past and future.