Ghost had been a gladiator for quite a few years now, bartered and sold to the highest bidders for the entertainment of the rich and powerful, offered riches and services and freedom the more fights he won—the more foes he conquered like a true Roman should.

None of it interested him. He didn’t fight for fame or fortune, accepted only enough money to live comfortably and eat well. He didn’t even fight for the glory anymore, though that was how it started for him.

No, he had a new reason to stick close to the Colosseum.

He stood in one of the cages in the hypogeum after his most recent battle—waiting—breathing in hard puffs of air as sweat dripped down his skin, cutting through the grime and dirt, creating quite the picture of what had befallen his opponent.

He had his back turned to the door as he tugged off his dark metal helm, and paused when he heard the hinges squeak in protest of opening, soft steps creeping behind him. He turned at the waist, rolling his shoulders back and opening his posture as his dark eyes caught sight of what he’d been waiting for.

There you were, looking so innocent as you held a pitcher of clean water, a basin tucked beneath your arm and a clean cloth tossed over your nearly bare shoulder so he could wash after you collected some of the sweat off his person to be made into cosmetics and sold to the highborn women per the orders of your master.

His gaze practically burned as he looked at you.

His reason.