Page 65 of Thawed Gladiator: Cassius

I laugh, clapping him on the shoulder. “Always the critic.”

“Someone has to maintain standards,” he grumbles, but there’s warmth in his voice that wasn’t there in our difficult days.

The afternoon sun casts long shadows across our gathering as children weave between tables and adults cluster in conversation. Latin and English mix freely in the air, neither language dominating, both enriching each other—like everything else at Second Chance.

This, I realize, is what my father never understood about power. True influence doesn’t come from forcing others to your will,but from creating spaces where everyone can grow stronger together. Each person here, from the troubled teens finding their confidence to the townspeople discovering new possibilities, adds something unique to our shared story.

Diana catches my eye across the crowd and smiles. The private gesture makes my heart race. Later, we’ll walk home together under the stars, making plans and dreaming dreams. But for now, I simply savor this moment, this impossible, wonderful gathering of past and present, of second chances and new beginnings.

Chapter Fifty-Three

Cassius

Spring sunlight streams through the barn windows as I watch Diana demonstrate a new training technique to our latest group of students. Her confidence has grown these past months, matching the program’s expansion. She moves with easy authority, her voice clear and strong as she explains the importance of body language when working with horses.

When she catches me watching, her eyes soften with affection. These small moments still take my breath away—the casual intimacy of a shared glance, the brush of her hand against mine as we pass each other in the barn, the way she absently plays with my hair when we sit together on her porch in the evenings.

“Earth to Cassius,” she calls out, her tone teasing. “Want to help demonstrate the proper mounting technique?”

I give her an almost imperceptible wink and tease her subtly. “Mounting.Certainly.”

As I pass her on my way to Atlas, Diana’s hand rests naturally on the small of my back. Even this light touch sends warmth through me.

“Show-off,” she whispers as I execute a particularly smooth mount and dismount.

“You love it,” I murmur back in English, enjoying her quick intake of breath. My accent still makes her smile.

The lesson continues, but my mind drifts to the small box I’ve been carrying with me for weeks, waiting for the perfect moment. But perhaps perfection isn’t what matters—we’ve built our love on reality, not fairy tales.

Later, as we review the day’s progress in her office, Laura pokes her head in. “Quick question about the garum production. We’re getting more orders than expected. We’ll need someone dedicated to managing it soon.”

“I might have some ideas about that,” I say, but Laura’s already gone, rushing to her next task.

Diana stretches, her shirt riding up to reveal a strip of skin that thoroughly derails my thoughts. “Busy day,” she yawns. “Walk me home?”

The evening air is mild, carrying the scent of blooming flowers.

“Let’s go the long way.” I fight to keep my voice casual. After weeks of planning, after consulting with Laura about Roman marriage customs and modern sensibilities, the moment has finally arrived.

Diana tucks herself against my side as we walk, fitting perfectly under my arm. The small box in my pocket seems to grow with each beat of my heart. We’ve made this trek countless times, but tonight feels different—charged with possibility.

“Remember our first kiss?” she asks suddenly, nodding toward the pasture where it happened.

“Every moment,” I reply softly. Without discussion, we turn toward the hilltop where we often watch the sunset. I’ve arranged everything perfectly—or as perfectly as a former patrician turned gladiator turned modern man can manage in this new world.

She gasps as we crest the hill. I’ve recreated a small piece of Rome here: white roses scattered across a blanket, amphoras of wine (though these hold her favorite Cabernet rather than the strong Falernian wine that made her wince the first and only time she tasted it), and small oil lamps casting a warm glow in the gathering dusk.

“Cassius?” Her voice holds a question.

I capture her hands in mine, my grip gentle but possessive, my thumbs brushing over her knuckles. “In Rome,” I begin, “when a patrician wished to marry, there were formal customs. Thefamilies would negotiate, contracts would be drawn, and the gods would be consulted.”

I draw her closer, my voice dropping lower. “But we’re not in Rome. And I’ve learned that some traditions are meant to be honored, while others deserve to be reinvented.”

With the commanding presence that once demanded respect in Rome’s greatest halls, I drop to one knee. I pull out not a ring, but a delicate golden torque—a blend of Roman tradition and modern craftsmanship. I asked Laura for a year’s advance on my earnings to have a metalworker make the beautiful bracelet that has a horse’s head carved onto each end.

“Diana Thompson, you’ve taught me what it means to be truly noble—not through birth or status, but through actions and heart. You’ve shown me that second chances aren’t just about starting over, but about becoming who we’re meant to be.”

Her eyes shine with tears as I continue, “I kneel before you not as a patrician or a gladiator, but simply as a man who loves you with everything he is and everything he hopes to become. Will you marry me?”

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