Page 15 of Thawed Gladiator: Quintus (Awakened From the Ice #6)
Chapter Fourteen
Nicole
Something’s wrong with me.
With two weeks left in the four-week program, I’m more confused than ever.
I catch myself checking my phone during Professor Muransky’s virtual lecture, hoping for a text that won’t come. Quintus doesn’t text—he’s more likely to appear at my door with coffee or show up to fix something I didn’t even know was broken.
But I’m looking anyway, and that’s the problem.
My heart races every time I spot him across the dining hall, shoulders tightening the way they used to when Scott walked into a room—except now it isn’t dread, it’s something more dangerous: want.
I find excuses to walk past the stables where he’s been working on irrigation repairs.
When he’s not around, I miss him with an intensity that feels dangerous and completely contrary to everything I came here to accomplish.
This isn’t what I wanted. These feelings—this growing need for his presence, his voice, his steady competence—are exactly what I was trying to avoid.
I came here for me. To find myself, build confidence, discover who I am when I’m not shrinking to fit someone else’s expectations. Not to lose myself in another relationship before I’ve even figured out who the hell I am as an independent person.
But lying in bed after he leaves each night, I find myself wishing he would stay.
Every evening ends the same way—his body worshipping mine until I’m trembling, his reverence undoing me in ways I never thought sex could.
Then his quiet footsteps slipping out before morning, leaving the bed colder than I want to admit.
Part of me wants him to stay, and not just for the sex—though that’s admittedly spectacular—but for the quiet conversations, the way he listens when I talk about my academic work, the comfortable silence that feels like coming home.
And the way this obviously private man has opened himself to me, layer by layer, until I know as much about him as if we’d known each other for decades.
It should terrify me, the way he’s already inside my walls, claiming space I swore I’d never give again. Instead, the fear tangles with a hunger I can’t quiet, the two of them indistinguishable in the dark.
Now, during morning self-defense training, Maya has us working on situational awareness exercises.
I’m supposed to be scanning for potential threats, but my attention keeps drifting to where Quintus repairs equipment near the shed.
His movements are economical and precise, every motion serving a purpose.
“Earth to Nicole,” Karen laughs, snapping her fingers in front of my face. “Maya asked you a question.” She smirks. “You’ve had that blissed-out glow all week. Don’t bother denying it.”
“Sorry. What was the question?”
Maya’s expression is knowing. “I asked what you’d do if someone grabbed you from behind while you were distracted.”
The irony isn’t lost on me. I’m so busy watching Quintus that I’ve completely failed at the awareness exercise designed to keep me safe.
“I’d probably get grabbed because I wasn’t paying attention,” I admit, earning laughter from the group.
“Exactly. Distraction makes us vulnerable.” Maya’s eyes find mine meaningfully. “Sometimes the most dangerous threats are the ones that make us feel safe.”
Her words hit harder than they should. Is that what’s happening here? Am I mistaking emotional connection for safety, setting myself up for another kind of captivity?
Later, in my cabin, my laptop screen gleams with the promise of order: a grant proposal assignment complex enough to demand every ounce of mental energy I possess.
For six hours, I immerse myself and allow the steady rhythm of research to pull me back into myself. Words and ideas come easily, and for the first time in days, my brain feels sharp instead of scattered.
When I finally submit the proposal at three in the morning, I feel like myself again. Competent, focused, intellectually capable. Not some lovesick woman whose brain turns to mush at the sight of battle scars and gentle hands.
Although Professor Muransky certainly hasn’t had time to grade last night’s paper, I receive a message the next morning about a different assignment. “Your research methodology and policy analysis exceed expectations for this course level.”
The achievement should feel triumphant. Instead, it feels hollow. Empty. Like celebrating alone in a restaurant where all the other tables are full of couples sharing their joy.
I catch myself wanting to tell Quintus about the grade, wanting to see his face light up with genuine pride in my accomplishment. The realization makes my chest clench with panic. When did his approval start mattering more than my own?
On a call to my daughter, I barely have time to tell her about the message before she turns the conversation and asks, “You’re falling for him, aren’t you, Mom?”
Ava’s direct question catches me mid-sip of coffee, and I nearly choke on the hot liquid. Her face on my phone screen is gentle but knowing, wearing the expression she gets when she’s figured out something I’m still trying to hide from myself.
“I don’t know. Maybe. It’s complicated.”
“Why is it complicated?”
Setting down my coffee cup, I scrutinize my daughter—this wise, confident young woman who somehow grew up despite having Scott as a father. “I just found myself, Ava. I can’t lose me again.”
“What if loving him doesn’t mean losing yourself?”
The question hangs between us like a challenge. “You don’t understand. When I love someone, I disappear. I become what they need instead of who I am. I did it with your father for twenty-five years.”
“Mom.” Ava’s voice is patient but firm. “You’re not the same person who married Dad. You’re stronger now. Haven’t you proven that to yourself over and over these past few months?”
“Have I? Because right now I feel like I’m one good conversation away from reorganizing my entire life around someone else’s needs… again.”
“Or maybe you’re one good conversation away from realizing that healthy relationships expand your world instead of limiting it.” Ava leans closer to her camera. “Dad made you smaller because your strength threatened him. This guy—does he do that?”
Her question claws at the tenderest part of me, the part that still doubts I can be strong without vanishing into someone else.
I think about Quintus encouraging my academic work, making space for my independence without crowding it, respecting my boundaries even when they clearly frustrate him. “No. He doesn’t.”
“Then maybe the problem isn’t him. Maybe it’s that you’re terrified of wanting something good because you don’t trust yourself to choose wisely.”
Her words hit like a physical blow. “When did you get so smart?”
“I learned from watching you fight for your dreams even when someone spent decades telling you they didn’t matter.” Ava’s smile is fierce with love. “You taught me that wanting more doesn’t make you selfish. Maybe it’s time you believed that too.”
After we hang up, I stare at my reflection in the darkened window. The woman looking back appears confident and strong, but inside I feel like that eighteen-year-old girl who got pregnant and let fear dictate every major decision that followed.
What if Ava’s right? What if the problem isn’t Quintus or my feelings for him, but my terror of trusting my own judgment about what I want and deserve?
That thought stays with me throughout the day, humming under the surface as I move through meals and training.
Everyone here has their own scars, their own burdens, and still they find ways to laugh, to fight, to belong.
Somehow, I’m part of that now—and the realization both comforts and terrifies me.
Later, alone in my room with anxiety gnawing at my stomach, I pull up my calendar and stare at the approaching end date for the intensive program.
Less than two full weeks left. Then what?
I could sign up for an additional four-week advanced session—I’ve already done the paperwork, though I haven’t submitted it yet. But that’s just postponing the inevitable decision. Eventually, I have to choose between the life I was building and whatever this is becoming.
My apartment lease runs through next summer. I’m registered for spring semester classes that require physical attendance. The nonprofit where I work part-time is counting on me for its grant application season.
Real life. Responsibilities. The careful structure I built to support my independence.
But now, lying here in the dark, listening to the Missouri breeze through my open window, I can’t imagine going back to that tiny apartment where I’d rattle around like a marble in a shoebox.
I can’t picture returning to a life where my biggest excitement is a good grade on a paper nobody else cares about.
What if I give up everything and he decides I’m not worth it? What if I upend my carefully constructed independence, and he turns out to be just another man who wants to reshape me into something more convenient?
Or worse—what if I discover that I haven’t changed as much as I think I have? What if, faced with real love and partnership, I fall back into old patterns of making myself smaller to keep someone else happy?
My chest locks, breath shuddering out in shallow bursts.
Heat crawls up my throat, shame and panic tangling until I can’t tell one from the other.
My palms go clammy, my pulse pounding in my ears.
This isn’t just a fear in my head—it’s in my body, in my bones, a muscle memory of erasing myself for someone else.
The fears circle like vultures, picking at my confidence until I’m left with nothing but doubt and the growing certainty that I need to protect myself before I lose everything I’ve worked so hard to build.
The silence where his music should be presses on me like a weight, every note he doesn’t play a reminder of how much space he already takes up inside me.
I curl tighter beneath the covers, whispering a promise to myself I’m not sure I can keep: Tomorrow, I’ll remind Quintus this is temporary—even as terror coils low in my belly reminding me I might already have failed.