Page 18 of Thawed Gladiator: Quintus (Awakened From the Ice #6)
Nicole
Seven days have crawled by. One week left in the program, one week to survive in the same space as Quintus while pretending he doesn’t exist. I’ve mastered the art of strategic avoidance.
I know Quintus’s schedule now—not because I want to see him, but because I need to know exactly where he’ll be so I can be anywhere else. Morning training while he’s checking equipment. Lunch when he’s at the stables. Evening walks when he’s safely tucked away in the gladiators’ quarters.
Despite my efforts to avoid him, I catch glimpses of him through windows—shoulders set with the kind of resignation I recognize from movies when fighters accept a fate they can’t change. The sight of his quiet suffering makes my chest ache, but I’ve dug this hole too deep to climb out gracefully.
It’s exhausting.
This morning, he’s walking toward the far end of the property with tools slung over his shoulder, heading to the garum processing facility where the pungent smell of fermenting fish sauce keeps most people away.
Laura’s doing him a favor, I realize. Assigning him to remote projects where he won’t have to see me either. The knowledge sits like a weight on my chest, another layer of guilt.
“You look like hell,” Jessica observes, falling into step beside me as I head toward the training yard.
“Thanks. Just what every woman wants to hear.”
“I’m serious. When’s the last time you slept?” She studies my face with the concerned expression I’ve been getting from everyone lately. “Two hours doesn’t count.”
Karen folds her arms, her tone softer. “Honey, you look like you’re running on fumes. This isn’t sustainable.”
“I’m fine.”
Jessica snorts. “Sure. You’re the dictionary definition of thriving.”
“You’re miserable. We all see it.” Karen chimes in, her usual cheerful demeanor replaced by genuine worry. “Want to talk about what happened with your gladiator?”
“He’s not my gladiator.”
The words taste bitter. Because he was mine, wasn’t he? For those stolen weeks when I let myself believe casual could stay simple, he was absolutely mine. And I threw it away because I was too scared to find out what forever might look like.
“Okay, but whatever’s going on between you two is affecting the whole compound.” Jessica’s voice is gentle but persistent. “The tension is thick enough to choke on.”
During training, I throw myself into the exercises with savage intensity. Every punch, every kick, every defensive sequence becomes a way to work out the frustration and longing that’s been building inside me.
But even exhaustion can’t quiet the voice in my head that whispers his name at random moments.
He laughed at something I said two weeks ago, and the memory still makes me smile.
His hands carried gentle competence when he curried Moonbeam.
And there was reverence in the way he touched me—as though I were something precious instead of something to be endured.
I miss everything about him like a physical wound that refuses to heal.
I miss his voice, the careful way he spoke English like he was choosing each word deliberately, the musical accent that made even mundane conversations sound like poetry.
I miss the way he looked at me. Like I was exactly what he’d been hoping to find.
By afternoon, I’m desperate for distraction. My laptop screen glows with promise: the submission date for my final grant proposal. It’s due before the program ends next week, one more box to tick before real life crashes back in.
I pour myself into the assignment with the kind of focused intensity I used to save for avoiding Scott’s criticism.
The proposal comes together beautifully, each section flowing into the next with the kind of clarity that comes from genuine understanding.
This is good work. Might I even say excellent?
The kind I dreamed about during all those years when Scott insisted community college was “good enough for someone like me.”
When I hit submit at ten PM, I should feel triumphant. Instead, I feel hollow. Empty. Like tasting the sweetest fruit but having no one to offer the other half. The first person I want to tell about this success is the man I told to stay away from me.
My email dings with the usual automated receipt, and I close the laptop with a sigh. But when I reopen it an hour later, restless and unable to sleep, I notice an unread message buried in my inbox from earlier in the week.
Outstanding work on your latest draft of the cultural preservation proposal. Your insights into community engagement strategies show a sophisticated understanding of the field. I’d like to discuss some opportunities that might interest you—please schedule office hours when you’re back in town.
I should feel validated. Instead, the achievement tastes like cardboard.
Success means nothing when you don’t have anyone to share it with.
My phone rings. Ava.
“Mom! How’s the final project going?”
“Finished. My professor wants to recommend me for some opportunities.” The words come out flat, mechanical.
“That’s amazing! Why do you sound like someone died?”
I try to muster enthusiasm, but it’s useless. Ava knows me too well and can read every emotion I’m trying to hide.
“What happened with the gladiator?”
The question hangs between us, and I realize I can’t pretend anymore. Can’t keep acting like everything’s fine when I feel like I’m bleeding internally from wounds I inflicted on myself.
“I ended it.”
“Oh, Mom.” Her voice carries so much compassion it makes my throat tight. “Why?”
“Because I’m an idiot who’s too scared to trust my own judgment about what I want.” The admission spills out before I can stop it. “Because I was falling for him, and that terrified me.”
“Were you falling, or did you fall?”
Trust Ava to cut straight to the heart of it. “Past tense. Definitely past tense.”
Hours later, sleep is impossible. After midnight, I give up and slip out for a walk, restless for air that doesn’t smell like regret.
The sanctuary is peaceful under the star-scattered Missouri sky, but instead of my usual path, I drift toward the new construction where Quintus has been working.
I tell myself I’m just curious about the facility. That this has nothing to do with hoping I might catch a glimpse of him.
But then I hear it. Music floating through the night air like something from a dream.
His voice. Singing alone in the darkness while the rest of the sanctuary sleeps.
I follow the sound like it’s calling me home, drawn by the same irresistible pull that first made me fall for him. The melody grows clearer as I approach the half-built building, and I can make out words through my translation earpiece.
This is raw.
“I held love like morning mist,
beautiful, gone too fast.
Now I practice letting go,
holding nothing I can’t keep.”
The song is about me. About us. About the choice I made to walk away from something that could have been beautiful.
Tears stream down my face as I watch him through the gap between buildings. Seated on a crate, he tilts his face toward the stars, moonlight silvering his hair.
He’s not angry. He’s heartbroken.
And he’s letting me go because he thinks that’s what I need. Not because he stopped caring, but because he cares enough to respect my choice even when it’s destroying him.
The song continues, each verse more devastating than the last:
Love is not a prison wall,
it should be a field to roam.
I would give her space to breathe,
not chain her here to call it home.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Can’t do anything but stand there crying while he sings about sacrificing his own happiness for mine. While he practices letting go of something we both want, because I believe it’s what’s best for me.
This man. He’s an incredible, self-sacrificing, beautiful man who would rather suffer in silence than make me feel guilty for my choice.
I was wrong. About everything. About him, about us, about what love is supposed to look like.
Scott’s version of love was control. Possession. But this—this is love that enhances instead of diminishes.
The song ends, and silence settles like a blanket. He sits perfectly still, lost in echoes.
I step out from behind the storage building.
“I heard your song.”
He startles, shock and maybe hope in his eyes. “Nicole.”
“I can’t let you let me go. I can’t watch you let me go when all I want is to hold on.”
He rises slowly. “You made your choice clear. I am respecting it.”
“I was wrong.” Another step closer. “About everything. About us. About what I’m strong enough to handle.”
His eyes search my face. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying I don’t want to protect myself anymore if it means losing you. I need you, Quintus. Although I don’t know what the future looks like, I know I want you in it.”
The words taste like freedom on my tongue, like I’m finally admitting what I’ve known for days—that walking away from him was the biggest mistake of my life.
Something in his posture tightens—not desire, but caution. He wants to believe me; I can see it in his eyes, but uncertainty shadows his voice.
“Nicole…” he says carefully.
“I know,” I rush out, seeing hesitation shadow his expression. “I know I hurt you. I can’t just expect you to—”
“It isn’t that simple.” His voice is careful, almost fragile. “My heart wants to say yes, but my mind remembers how easily you walked away when fear took hold.”
Shame burns my throat. “I won’t do that again.”
His eyes narrow, not unkind but searching. “Words are easy. What proves this time is not the same as before?”
The truth lodges in my chest, but I force it free. “I realized that losing you scares me more than risking my independence.”
For the first time in days, his guarded expression cracks, hope flickering through the grief.
For a moment, we’re frozen—close enough to feel each other’s heat, trembling with want and fear and hope.
Then his hand touches my face, thumb brushing away tears.
“Are you certain?”
“I’m certain I don’t want to practice letting go. I want to practice holding on.”
His smile transforms his face. “Then let’s practice together.”
He takes my hand, fingers twining naturally, and we walk toward his quarters in silence—nervous, determined, knowing everything changes tonight.
We’re going to discover what lies on the other side of courage.