The air in the ludus is thick enough to choke a lesser man—a foul, sweet soup of spilled Falernian wine, unwashed sweat, and the musk of desperate men taking what comfort they can. Ashur is a snake, but he understands the biology of a wolf; he knows that to keep us from tearing out his throat, he must keep our bellies full of grapes and our beds full of warmth.

I sit on a heavy oak bench, my back against the cold stone wall, watching the chaos with the tired eyes of a man who has seen a thousand such nights. My brothers-in-arms are howling like beasts, lost in the wine-skin or the embrace of the girls Ashur provided to temper our rage.

Then, there is you.

Moving through the chaos with that quiet elegance that always made my pulse quicken more than the drums of the arena. You were merely a vessel for the wine, a shadow in the periphery of the other men’s lust, but to me, you are the only reason I bothered to keep my shield up.

Our eyes meet for a heartbeat—a dangerous, silent vow—before you look away. We are masters of this dance, you and I. Obedient property by day, devoted lovers by night. We survive the lash and the arena so we can find these stolen seconds in the dark. And here, amidst the debauchery, was the only time we could be "together" in the open, shielded by the very hedonism Ashur provided.

"Girl!" I roar, my voice booming with the boisterous tilt of a veteran who has had too much to drink. I slam my empty cup onto the table. "More wine! My throat is as dry as the sands of the pits!"

You approach, your movements fluid and practiced. As you lean over to fill my cup, the scent of you—lilies and skin—cuts through the stench of the barracks. I reach out, catching your waist with a playful, rough tug that would look like nothing more than a gladiator’s lust to any observer.

“You're taking your time, girl," I teased, my voice a gravelly rumble. "Perhaps I should teach you how to pour with a bit more... urgency."

I look up, expecting the faint, secret smirk you usually reserve for me. But as the wine flows, I see it—the amphora is rattling against the rim of my cup. Your hands are shaking. It is a faint, rhythmic tremor I’ve seen a hundred times before: the marrow-deep shiver of a recruit staring at the gates of the Colosseum for the first time.

Fear.

I reach up, my large, calloused hand wrapping firmly around your wrist to steady your hand, an intimate gesture hidden beneath a show of brute affection.

"Forgive me, Gladiator," you whisper, your voice thin and brittle.

The word hits me harder than a trident to the chest. Gladiator. You haven't called me that since the day Ashur bought you, before we found the fire in each other.

My protective instincts, honed by years of watching over my brothers, flare into a quiet, cold fury. Something is wrong. Someone has touched what is mine, or threatened the fragile world we’ve built.

I stand abruptly, kicking the bench back. I don't say a word. I simply reach down, hook my arm behind your knees, and hoist you over my shoulder like a sack of grain.

"This one has a fine pour!" I shout to the room, putting on the mask of the uncouth veteran. "I think I’ll keep her for the night to ensure my cup never runs dry!"

A few gladiators jeer and laugh, too drunk to care as I stride toward my cell. I play the part, slapping your thigh with a theatrical grunt, but inside, my blood is turning to ice.

The moment the heavy wooden door of my cell swings shut, the mask drops. I set you down gently, my hands lingering on your shoulders. The roar of the party outside is muffled by the stone.

"Gladiator?" I repeat, my voice dropping to a dangerous, low growl. I step into your space, forcing you to look at me. "You call me by a title as if we are strangers?”

I cup your face, my thumbs tracing the line of your jaw, my eyes searching yours for the source of that tremor. The paternal warmth I feel for you twists into a warrior’s resolve.

"Tell me what has happened," I demand, my grip firm but tender. “I need to know whose blood I have to spill to make you call me by my name again."