Page 8 of Thawed Gladiator: Quintus (Awakened From the Ice #6)

Nicole

Two days since I heard Quintus singing under the Missouri stars, and I still can’t stop thinking about his voice—low and unguarded, a sound that crawls under my skin and refuses to leave.

The memory hits me at the most inconvenient moments.

During self-defense drills, while reviewing grant proposals, even brushing my teeth, for crying out loud. He’s everywhere.

This wasn’t the plan. The plan was simple: learn to kick ass, feel strong in my body, maybe have some harmless fun fantasizing about the charming redhead who makes me laugh. The plan definitely didn’t include developing complicated feelings for a man whose voice could make angels weep.

“Nicole, you’re telegraphing your moves.” Maya’s sharp observation cuts through my distraction. “Whatever’s got your head in the clouds, park it outside the training room.”

Heat floods my cheeks as I reset my stance. Focus. This is about building strength and confidence, not fixating over midnight serenades I was never supposed to hear.

“Better. Now, Quintus is going to demonstrate the counter to that combination. Pay attention to hand placement.”

Of course he is. The universe clearly has a twisted sense of humor. The man who has consumed every waking (and some dreaming) thought for the last two days has suddenly been enlisted to help teach my class.

Quintus steps into the center of our practice area, and my mouth goes dry.

In daylight, wearing workout clothes instead of the casual jeans and T-shirt I’m used to seeing him in, the man is…

substantial. Broad shoulders, arms that speak of decades wielding heavy weapons, movements both controlled and predatory.

“The key,” he says, his accent giving the words a musical quality I now know comes from literal music living in his bones, “is to redirect rather than resist. When someone grabs your wrist like this—” He demonstrates on Maya, his touch careful and professional.

“—you do not fight the grip. You use it.”

I watch his hands with fascination bordering on obsession. Those same hands that adjusted my window frame, that had moved through the air conducting invisible orchestras while he sang. Now they’re showing us how to break free from an attacker, how to turn someone’s strength against them.

The contradiction is driving me insane.

“Partner up for practice,” Maya calls out. “Quintus, can you work with Nicole? She’s been struggling with this sequence.”

I haven’t been struggling. I’ve been distracted by thoughts of what those hands might feel like on my skin, but that’s hardly something I can announce to the class.

“Of course.” He moves toward me with an economical grace that makes my pulse quicken. “May I?”

Professional. Courteous. Treating me exactly like he treats every other student. That should reassure me. Instead, it makes me itch to push, to see what’s beneath that careful control.

“Please.” My voice comes out slightly breathless, which is ridiculous. We’re practicing self-defense, not foreplay.

His hand closes around my wrist—gentle but firm, testing the grip that would simulate an actual threat. His skin is warm and calloused, and a shock of heat shoots straight between my thighs. I bite the inside of my cheek hard, desperate not to make a sound that would give me away.

“Feel the direction of pressure,” he says, standing close enough for me to catch his scent—soap and leather and something indefinably masculine that makes my knees weak.

His chest is inches from my shoulder; the faint warmth of his breath grazes my temple.

Every nerve in me leans toward him, traitorous and hungry.

“Do not fight against it. Use the momentum.”

He guides me through the movement, his other hand light on my shoulder to show me the angle. Professional touches that shouldn’t feel intimate but do, because I keep remembering the way his face looked in the moonlight, unguarded and beautiful.

“Good,” he murmurs as I execute the technique correctly. “Much better. You learn quickly.”

The approval in his voice sends warmth shooting through my chest, and I realize I’m in deeper trouble than I thought. When was the last time a man’s praise made me feel genuinely proud instead of just relieved I hadn’t screwed up?

“Again,” Maya calls out. “This time, put some real effort into it. Don’t be polite.”

Real effort. Right. Like I could focus on anything other than the way Quintus’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he’s concentrating, or how his careful touches are awakening nerve endings I’d forgotten I had.

We run through the sequence three more times, and by the end, I’m breathing harder than the exercise warrants. Every brush of his fingers, every quiet word of encouragement, every moment of being the focus of his complete attention—it’s building something dangerous in my chest.

Something that feels less like distraction and more like danger.

“Excellent progress,” he says as we finish, and there’s something in his expression that makes me think he might be feeling the effects of all that careful touching, too.

His gaze flickers down—quick, controlled, but not invisible.

He felt this, the same as I did. “You have good instincts, Nicole. Trust them.”

Trust my instincts. If I trusted my instincts right now, I’d grab him by the shirt and find out if his mouth tastes as good as his voice sounds.

Instead, I mumble something about needing water and practically flee to the other side of the training area.

By my late afternoon rest period, I’m a mess of contradictions.

My body feels alive in ways it never did during my marriage—hyper-aware of every sensation, every possibility.

For twenty-five years, sex was something that happened to me, not something I actively wanted.

Scott made sure I understood that my desires were inconvenient at best, selfish at worst.

But this? This feels like waking up hungry after years of starving myself.

My phone buzzes with Ava’s contact photo, and I answer before the second ring.

“Mom! You look flushed. Good workout?”

“Something like that.” I prop the phone against my pillow and flop onto my bed, still trying to catch my breath from the emotional whiplash of the day.

“Okay, spill. What’s got you all glowy?”

“I’m not glowy. I’m sweaty.”

“You’re glowy in a way that has nothing to do with exercise. Is it gladiator-related?”

Trust my daughter to cut straight to the heart of things. “I may have met someone interesting.”

Her face lights up on the screen. “Mom! Tell me everything!”

“It’s nothing serious. Just… he’s not what I expected.” The words sound flimsy even to me. Nothing serious? He sang poetry in Latin under the stars without even knowing I was listening.

“You sound different when you talk about him.”

“I do not.”

“Yes, you do. So? Do you like him? Like, actually like him? Because you’ve got that goofy smile you only get when Jason Momoa shows up shirtless in a movie trailer.”

I roll my eyes, but the protest dies in my throat. Ava’s right. This matters more than I want to admit, which is exactly why it’s terrifying.

“I’m supposed to be focusing on myself,” I say, but the words feel hollow even to me. “Building my independence. Not falling for another man.”

“What if you can do both? What if finding the right person actually makes you stronger instead of weaker?”

After we hang up, I stare at the ceiling and try to sort through the tangle of wants and fears competing in my chest. Ava’s question echoes in my mind: what if finding the right person makes you stronger?

I pull out my laptop to work on this week’s assignment, grateful for the distraction.

The grant proposal flows easily tonight—something about historical preservation programs that leverage experiential learning to create deeper cultural connections.

As I write about the power of hands-on education to transform understanding, I realize I’m basically describing what’s happening to me here.

Learning to fight has taught me I’m stronger than I knew. Learning to ride has shown me I’m braver than I thought. And learning that the quiet gladiator who fixes broken windows sings like an angel? That’s teaching me I might be ready for complications I’d sworn off forever.

When I submit my work, my professor’s feedback from the last assignment still glows on the screen: Outstanding work on cultural preservation funding.

Your community engagement strategies demonstrate a sophisticated understanding of nonprofit leadership dynamics.

This represents graduate-level thinking.

Graduate level. Me! My professor just validated that I can do this academic thing—that I’m smart and capable, and I don’t need to depend on anyone.

But wanting someone isn’t the same as needing them, is it? And for the first time in my adult life, I’m feeling genuine want—not the desperate need for approval that drove my marriage, but actual desire for a specific man who makes my pulse quicken and my brain turn to mush.

I deserve to feel desired. I deserve good sex before I dry up and get old. The thought hits me with startling clarity as I close my laptop and catch sight of myself in the dresser mirror.

Forty-five isn’t ancient. My body is getting stronger every day, and for the first time in decades, I actually like what I see when I look at myself—a woman still worth wanting, still worth touching.

A woman with bright eyes, color in her cheeks, and the kind of confidence that comes from throwing actual gladiators onto training mats.

If Quintus is willing, what’s the harm in some casual fun? I’m in control now—of my body, my choices, my desires. Maybe I can handle physical attraction without losing myself in it.

Can’t I?

The thought follows me through my evening routine and out onto the sanctuary grounds for my nightly walk. The Missouri air carries the scent of coming autumn, and the moon is nearly full, turning the paths silver-bright.

I find myself walking toward the area where I first heard him sing, though I don’t expect to find him there again. That was probably a onetime thing, a moment of private vulnerability I was lucky enough to witness.

But I keep walking anyway, because something about that spot feels charged with possibility now. Like it’s become sacred ground where transformations happen and walls come down.

The training yards are empty, bathed in moonlight that makes everything look like a stage set for some grand romance.

I settle onto the same log where Quintus had sat three nights ago, and try to imagine what it would feel like to have that kind of music in my soul.

Try to imagine what it would feel like to have someone sing to me with that much emotion.

The thought sends heat spiraling through my chest, and I realize I’ve made my decision. I can handle physical attraction. I’m in control now. If I want him—and I do, with an intensity that should probably scare me—then, if he’s willing, I’ll make it happen.

I walk back to my quarters with a new sense of purpose, and spend longer than usual in the shower, taking care with things I’d stopped paying attention to years ago. Shaving carefully. Touching my body. Looking at myself not as a collection of flaws Scott catalogued, but as something wholly mine.

Something that could give and receive pleasure with the right partner.

In the mirror, I practice what confidence looks like. Shoulders back, eyes direct, taking up space without apology. The woman looking back at me is someone I’m still getting to know, but I like her more every day.

Tomorrow, I’ll make my interest known. Tomorrow, I’ll take charge of my desires for the first time in my adult life.

Tomorrow, I’ll find out if the man who sings to the stars is interested in making some earthbound music with me.

And yet, beneath the bravado, a single question drums in my pulse: what if he says no?