Page 3 of Thawed Gladiator: Quintus (Awakened From the Ice #6)

Chapter Three

Nicole

One week into the program, and I’m still discovering muscles I’d forgotten I had.

“Better,” Maya calls out as I execute the defensive stance we’ve been drilling for the past hour.

The morning sun beats down on the training yard, and sweat drips between my shoulder blades, but I feel stronger than I have in years.

“But you’re still apologizing with your body language. Stop shrinking.”

“Sorry, I—” I catch myself mid-apology.

Her eyebrow lifts in warning.

“No apologies. Take up space. You have the right.”

Something in me clicks. I roll my shoulders back, spine tall. Not pretending this time—actually claiming it. Strength thrumming through my muscles.

Around me, the other women shout the mantra, louder each day: “No apologies. Take up space. We have the right!” We sound like warriors instead of whisperers.

Maya nods. “Excellent progress. Confidence isn’t something you earn. It’s something you decide to claim.”

The words land like a jolt. My whole life I’ve believed worth had to be proved—by grades, by pleasing Scott, by never rocking the boat. What if it really is just a choice?

Walking back to my quarters, I catch my reflection in a window. Shoulders back. Chin up. Meeting my own eyes instead of looking away. In the glass, hazel eyes stare back, flecked with gold like sunlight on muddy water—eyes I used to avoid but now could almost recognize as mine.

And there’s something different in my posture. As though I’m living in my skin instead of trying to disappear.

Scott would hate this version of me. The thought makes me grin.

My phone buzzes with Ava’s face.

“Mom! You look amazing!”

“I feel amazing. Sweaty and tired, but amazing.”

“Tell me everything. Are you actually throwing people around?”

“Ava, I can’t believe how strong I’m getting. Not just physically, but mentally. I’m standing differently, talking differently.”

Her face lights up. “You sound different. More… solid.”

“Maya keeps telling us we have the right to stand tall. That we don’t have to earn the right to exist without apology.” I lean closer to the camera. “I think I’m starting to believe her.”

“And you?” I ask quickly, not wanting the whole call to be about me. “How’s your roommate? Classes? Any eye candy on campus, or is that just a gladiator perk?” Ava laughs and rolls her eyes before answering.

“Bea is nice, a little messy. Classes are intense but good. And no, Mom, I’m not rating eligible guys for you.” She rolls her eyes, then her tone softens. “But can I say something, Mom? About you?”

Although from the way she asked the question, I’m not sure I want to hear the answer, I say, “Sure.”

“You gave up everything for him, Mom. College, your dreams, your friends.”

The truth hangs between us, stark and undeniable.

“I got three wonderful kids out of it. That made everything worth it.”

“But you deserved more.”

I swallow, her words hitting home. To distract her before I get too teary, I say, “And before you ask—yes, some of the gladiators are ridiculously good-looking. Flavius is basically a walking poster for biceps.”

Ava smirks. “I knew it! So… eye candy central?”

“Not exactly. They’re not all flashy twenty-somethings. There’s one man—older, quieter. The kind who looks like he’s holding the whole place together while everyone else shows off. He’s… different.” I shake my head quickly. “Anyway, I’m here to learn self-defense, not drool over men.”

“Uh-huh.” Ava’s grin widens. “Different sounds interesting. Just sayin’.”

After we hang up, I sit with her words about my life with her dad.

Ava’s right. I did give up everything—my freshman year when I got pregnant, my dreams of finishing college, my friends who gradually disappeared as Scott isolated me with criticism and demands.

But maybe it’s not too late to get some of it back.

I think about the grant proposal waiting on my laptop, about Professor Muransky’s praise: “Real aptitude.” Recognition I never got from Scott. For the first time, my academic work and my real life finally align.

By mid-afternoon, I have just enough time to grab a snack before my first therapeutic riding lesson.

The stables smell like hay and leather and something indefinably comforting. Diana, the riding instructor, greets me with a warm smile and calm authority.

“First time on a horse?”

“First time anyone’s trusted me near one,” I admit. “Honestly? I’ve never been this close to one before.”

Her mouth tightens almost imperceptibly. “Let me guess—he was also the expert on everything you supposedly couldn’t do?”

“Among other things.”

“Well, horses don’t care about human opinions. They respond to confidence and clear communication. Let’s start with getting you acquainted with Moonbeam here.”

The horse is massive—Diana says she’s sixteen hands, with gentle dark eyes and a silver coat that seems to shimmer in the afternoon light. My terror wars with wonder as Diana shows me how to approach, how to let Moonbeam smell my hand, and how to stroke her neck with firm, confident touches.

“She likes you,” Diana observes as Moonbeam nickers softly and leans into my touch.

“How can you tell?”

“Horses are excellent judges of character. They sense authenticity.” She hands me a brush. “They don’t respond well to fear or heavy-handed control.”

The parallel hits home as I stroke Moonbeam’s arched neck in long, steady strokes.

When Diana finally sets a stool beside us and teaches me how to swing into the saddle, my terror gives way to wonder.

I’m sitting atop half a ton of muscle and grace, and I’m not falling off. Instead, exhilaration floods me—Moonbeam moves because I asked, and for once in my life, I feel fully in command.

“You’re a natural,” Diana calls out as we complete a circuit of the riding ring. “Good posture, gentle hands, confident seat.”

Confident. That word again.

By the time the lesson ends, my thighs are trembling with fatigue, but I’m grinning like an idiot. I did it. I rode a horse and didn’t fall off or embarrass myself or prove any dire predictions right. For once, the victory is mine alone, and I want to savor it.

Diana leads Moonbeam into the long barn. “We’ll curry and brush her out,” she says, but another rider calls her name from down the corridor. She raises her voice: “Quintus—can you help Nicole?”

The man I’ve noticed around the compound—older, methodical, watchful—straightens from a tack bench and crosses toward us. Up close, he’s even larger than he seemed. Presence without noise.

Up close, I catch details I missed before—silver threading his dark hair at the temples, forearms roped from hard work, a mouth that seems built for giving quiet instructions rather than shouting them.

He lifts a round, toothed curry comb and works it over Moonbeam’s flank in slow circles.

“Circles, not lines,” he says in English, voice low and rough-edged. “It pulls the dirt and dust up. Also feels good to horse.”

Our fingers brush as he passes me the comb. Warmth jolts through me, startling in its steadiness.

Moonbeam’s tail flicks at a fly; the sudden swish makes me jolt. Before I can stumble, Quintus’s hand closes around my elbow—firm, careful—anchoring me.

“Easy. She isn’t afraid,” he says, mouth tilting the smallest fraction. “You are.”

I let out a breath that sounds like a laugh. Strange. With his calming presence so close, I’m not afraid at all.

He watches for a beat, then adds in Latin, my translator picking up his words, “In the ludus we brushed down horses the same way. Different world, same creatures. They didn’t care about chains or freedom. Only the hand that tended them.”

Something in my chest shifts at that one stark sentence, more honest than a dozen flashy stories.

Diana’s voice carries down the row, calling for him. He steps back, takes the comb, and hands me a soft horse brush with a nod.

“She’s yours now. Don’t let her sense doubt.” Then he’s turning away to help Diana.

That night, in my room, I replay the day’s victories—standing tall, taking up space, guiding a half ton of horseflesh with my own hands.

Perhaps tonight, even my dreams will take up space.