Page 26 of Thawed Gladiator: Victor

“Thanks, man. I’m Jim.”

Damian clasps his forearm in the old style before catching himself and adjusting to a modern handshake. If Jim notices the slip, he doesn’t show it. Damian nods and we return to our run.

But the girl isn’t finished. She wheels her bike alongside us as we run, chattering about school and her upcoming birthday. Damian adjusts his stride to match her pace, answering her questions with grave courtesy.

I look behind us for her father. He is sitting on a park bench watching us, allowing his daughter some independence while keeping vigilant. She’s one lucky little girl.

“Are you a superhero?” she asks him suddenly. “You look like one.”

Something between pain and amusement flickers across his features. “No, young one. Just a man who knows the importance of helping others.”

After I translate his words, she protests, “But you’re so big! And strong! Andnice!” Her logic is impeccable. “Superheroes are big and strong and nice.”

“Ah, but true heroes are made by their choices, not their size.” He gestures to her bike. “You showed courage getting back on after falling. That makes you more heroic than any strength of mine.”

She beams at the praise, then spots her friends across the park. “Bye!” She pedals off, teetering slightly but staying upright.

We watch her go, and I see something raw and vulnerable in Damian’s expression before his usual calm mask returns. Without discussing it, we fall back into our running rhythm, but something has shifted between us.

“You’re good with kids,” I say finally.

“They see truly.” His voice carries a hint of old pain. “Without the prejudices and fears that adults learn.”

Like seeing a gladiator as merely property? The weight of my deception sits even more heavily in my chest.

The sun climbs higher as we complete another lap. Sweat darkens his shirt, highlighting every sculpted muscle beneath. I’ve trained dozens of fighters, seen bodies most people only dream about, but something about Damian affects me differently. Maybe it’s the contrast between his physical power and his gentle soul. Or maybe it’s the way he looks at me when he thinks I won’t notice.

Tony’s men are getting restless—I can see them checking their phones, shifting in their seats. Our time here is almost up.

“One more lap?” Damian asks, reading my expression.

“We should head back.” The words come out more breathless than I’d like, and not from exertion. “Tony will—”

“Be Tony.” He matches my pace as we turn toward the parking lot. “But for a moment, we were simply ourselves.”

The observation hits home with surprising force. For a brief time, watching him with the little girl, I forgot about Tony and Rico and all the complications trapping us in this situation. I saw only the man—educated, compassionate, carrying ancient wisdom in a warrior’s body.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

“For what,Domina?”

“For reminding me that not everything is about fighting.”

His smile, rare and genuine, makes my heart skip. “The greatest battles are not always won with fists.”

We reach the SUV where Marco waits with poorly concealed impatience. The drive back to the gym will return us to our assigned roles—trainer and fighter, pretend owner and pretend slave. But something has changed, something as delicate and precious as the morning light that painted the lake in shades of shimmering gold.

Just before climbing into the vehicle, Damian pauses. “The little warrior was wrong about one thing,” he says quietly.

“Oh?”

“True heroes are not made by size or strength.” His eyes meet mine with unsettling directness. “They are made by having the courage to do what is right, even when it costs them everything.”

The words, though gentle, are an accusation. I consider the choices ahead—the tournament, Tony’s plans, the growing web of lies we’re tangled in. Damian’s quiet wisdom offers a different perspective, a reminder that sometimes victory comes not from fighting but from finding the courage to face the truth.

As we drive back to the gym, I catch him watching the park disappear behind us. His expression holds a longing that makes my throat tight. Not just for the open spaces and morning air, but for the simple freedom to be himself. To talk to a child without worrying about maintaining a cover story. To share his wisdom without filtering it through the expectations of others.

The guilt settles deeper, harder to ignore with each passing day. But now it’s mixed with something else—a growing certainty that whatever comes next, this man deserves far better than the hand fate has dealt him. Maybe we both do.

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