Page 7 of Thawed Gladiator: Quintus (Awakened From the Ice #6)

Quintus

Something in the air feels charged, like the hush before a storm.

I can’t pinpoint what exactly, but change hums through my pre-dawn routine. Hours before sunrise, my instincts prickle—like in the arena when the crowd turned restless before I could see why.

The horses sense it too. Apollo nickers softly as I pass his stall, ears pricked forward like he’s listening for something just beyond hearing. The morning feels expectant, as if waiting for something I can’t name.

I complete my circuit of the compound—testing gear, noting what needs repair. The same ritual I’ve performed every day since awakening in this strange new world. But today, familiar patterns feel somehow significant.

By the time the sun rises over the Missouri countryside, I’ve tightened the latches on the tack room door and realigned a loose fence post in the paddock. Although the work is complete, satisfaction doesn’t come. My mind drifts elsewhere.

To hazel eyes that catch flecks of gold in sunlight and spontaneous laughter.

To the way she pressed her lips together while concentrating yesterday.

To the memory of working in lamplight while she watched from her bed, asking questions that showed genuine interest rather than polite patience.

And then—her voice soft with intent—saying she wanted to know the man, not the legend.

The way my own reckless answer slipped free: Then see me.

Those words echo louder than any hammer on iron.

The dining hall fills with morning energy as I sit down for breakfast. Voices blur around me, but I’m scanning for one face.

Nicole enters with her training group, and suddenly the hall feels smaller, pressure building behind my ribs as if the air itself recognizes her before I do.

She looks the same—brown hair catching sunlight, stride steady with growing confidence. But the way her eyes dart around the room sets off every instinct I’ve honed in the arena.

She’s nervous.

Our gazes meet across the dining hall, and she quickly looks away, color rising in her cheeks like she’s been caught at something. The reaction is so sharp I nearly rise to ask what’s wrong.

But she’s already turning toward the food line, shoulders set like she wants distance.

Something happened. Something that involves me, judging by the way she can’t quite meet my eyes. Did I say something wrong last night? Do something that made her uncomfortable?

I replay our conversation—window repaired, comfortable talk, …and the startling intimacy of her words. The way her gaze lingered like she was torn between fear and desire. Her gratitude had been real, yes—but so was something deeper I don’t dare name.

What changed between then and now?

The question follows me through morning training. Usually, teaching younger gladiators quiets my mind. Today, I keep glancing toward the neighboring area where Nicole trains with Maya’s group. She throws herself into every movement as though she’s fighting something inside her.

I know that trick. Used it myself during the worst days in the ludus—drive the body hard enough and the mind goes quiet.

“Your head’s not in this today,” Cassius observes during a water break. He follows my gaze and smirks. “Ah. The brunette.”

“Her name is Nicole.” The smirk on his face reminds me that he was the one who told me her name yesterday.

“And she’s got you distracted.”

“Something’s wrong,” I admit. “She won’t look at me.”

“Maybe that’s good news. When a woman won’t meet a man’s eyes, it usually means she noticed more than she meant to.”

The thought hits like a punch. Attraction. Real interest.

But her nervousness suggests fear, not desire.

“Or,” I say slowly, “she decided I was overstepping last night. Helping with her window, being in her room. Maybe she’s not comfortable now.”

“Did she seem uncomfortable when you were there?”

I think back to the lamplight on her face, to the moment her words stripped me bare. To the silence after mine, heavy and dangerous.

“No. She seemed… pleased.”

“Then it’s probably the other thing.”

His words echo long after training ends, feeding the fire I keep trying to smother with reason. The idea lodges like a splinter: maybe he felt it too. Maybe this isn’t one-sided.

Her avoidance calls up another memory—my mother’s lullaby, a song she said could preserve hope when everything else was stripped away. In the ludus, music kept me human when I was meant to be only a weapon. Now Nicole’s gaze threatens to do the same.

What draws me to her grows stronger daily.

It started before our first official meeting in the barn.

It was hard not to notice how her independence grew with each training session.

Or her genuine laughter that lights up whatever room she’s in.

The way she’s begun to walk in power instead of shrinking into corners.

Her intelligence and curiosity—always asking thoughtful questions instead of just accepting surface answers.

And yes, the physical pull too. The grace she’s developing as her confidence builds. The delicate column of her throat when she tilts her head back to drink water. The warmth of her smile when she forgets to be cautious.

But it’s more than that. Last night, she pierced through everything I hide behind and asked to know me. And I—like a fool or a man too starved for truth—invited her to look closer. The danger of that invitation coils within me still.

I’ve spent so long being the reliable one, the problem-solver everyone comes to, that I’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be seen as just… a man. Not a weapon. Not a savior. Just a man—with wants, needs, and the capacity for connection.

She’s clearly not looking for romance. Came here for herself, for her own growth and empowerment. The last thing I want is to complicate her journey with expectations she hasn’t invited.

But the way she looked at me today suggests maybe the attraction isn’t entirely one-sided. Perhaps she saw something new, something that caught her off guard.

Dinner brings another charged moment when our gazes meet across the communal hall. Her gaze lingers, tracing the scar at my temple, sliding lower as if caught by the line of my mouth. Awareness sparks under my skin, hot and immediate, before I even let myself breathe.

When she finally breaks contact, the flush in her cheeks is unmistakable.

Maybe Cassius was right. Maybe her nervousness isn’t rejection—it’s recognition. The beginning of something neither of us expected.

The thought sends a dangerous warmth through me. I’ve faced men twice my size in the arena, stared down blades with death in their edges, but the idea of Nicole wanting me—truly seeing me—unsettles me more than combat ever did.

I go to sleep that night with a new feeling coiled tight beneath my ribs. Not just hope. Not just attraction.

Hunger. The kind that makes sleep shallow and sharpens every sense. The dizzying possibility that, after waiting two millennia, I might finally be seen—not as a weapon, not as a protector, but as a man.