Page 30 of Thawed Gladiator: Lucius
The previous night feels like a distant dream, despite having ended only hours ago. After our kiss in the cemetery—that blazing moment of connection among the tombs—we’d returned to our shared room with careful politeness that fooled neither of us.
The queen bed that had seemed manageable before suddenly loomed between us like a chasm we didn’t know how to cross.
We take turns in the bathroom with elaborate courtesy, emerging in practical sleepwear that nonetheless feels charged with new significance. I’d claimed the left side of the bed, he the right, both of us maintaining a careful border of space that might as well have been a wall. Yet I’d remained hyperaware of his presence: the sound of his breathing, the warmth radiating fromhis body mere inches away, the way the mattress shifted slightly when he moved.
Sleep came in fragments, punctuated by moments of acute awareness that the man I’d kissed among the dead lay close enough to touch. By morning, we both rose with careful normalcy, neither acknowledging the tension that had stretched between us through the dark hours.
Now we sit across from each other at the small table by the French doors, steam rising from our coffee cups as we share croissants provided by our hostess. The morning light reveals what darkness had mercifully hidden—the careful distance we’re maintaining, the way we avoid looking directly at each other.
“We should talk about last night,” I say finally, breaking the silence that’s stretched too long.
His pale eyes meet mine briefly before focusing on his coffee. “The sleeping arrangement proved… challenging.”
“That’s one way to put it.” I tear off a piece of croissant, needing something to do with my hands. “I don’t want you to think I have expectations. About what this is, or where it’s going.”
“I appreciate that.” His relief is evident. “In my time, such arrangements carried specific obligations. Contracts, essentially. I’m not certain I understand how such things work in your era.”
“Honestly? I’m not sure I do either.” The admission comes easier than expected. “There’s too much at stake here. We barely know each other.”
He nods slowly. “Perhaps it would be wise to maintain stronger boundaries until we better understand what we’re building.”
“Agreed.” Though even as I say it, my eyes trace the strong line of his jaw, the way morning light turns his skin luminous. “Boundaries.”
“Boundaries,” he repeats, but his gaze lingers on my lips just long enough to make the word feel like a challenge rather than a promise.
An hour later, the Hotel Marsden rises like a pristine wedding cake amid the weathered charm of the French Quarter. Inside, the lobby gleams with polished marble and gilded fixtures that would make even Roman senators raise impressed eyebrows. Lucius walks beside me, his pale features drawing curious glances despite his attempts to blend in with modern attire.
“Remember, you don’t have to say anything,” I whisper as we approach the elevator. “You’re here as my consultant, not as entertainment.”
A small smile touches his lips. “I’ve survived gladiatorial combat and two millennia frozen in ice. I believe I can manage one meeting with your patron.”
“Executive producer,” I correct automatically, though his assessment isn’t entirely wrong. David Norris does operate with the entitlement of a wealthy Roman sponsor.
The elevator doors open directly into the Royal Suite, where floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Mississippi River like a livingpainting. A production team buzzes around a conference table laden with pastries and coffee. At the head sits David Norris, his expensive suit and calculated stubble projecting casual power.
“The woman of the hour!” Norris rises, arms spread in welcome. His smile falters slightly when his gaze lands on Lucius. “And you brought your… consultant.”
“As discussed.” I keep my tone professional despite the warning bells already ringing in my head. “This is Lucius. He’ll be advising on historical accuracy regarding death rituals.”
Norris extends his hand, assessing Lucius with the practiced eye of someone who calculates human value in viewership potential. “Fascinating. Your unique appearance—is that a natural condition?”
“Yes,” Lucius answers simply, accepting the handshake without elaboration.
“Extraordinary.” Norris’s eyes gleam with opportunity. “The visual possibilities alone—”
“Are not relevant,” I interrupt firmly as I hand him one of the extra translation devices Laura provided. “Lucius is here for his knowledge, not his appearance.”
Norris recovers smoothly, gesturing toward the table. “Of course, of course. Please, join us. We have much to discuss.”
The meeting begins with standard production talk—shooting schedules, location permits, budget considerations. I contributewhere needed, conscious of Lucius observing silently beside me. His presence feels simultaneously grounding and exposing, as though he can see through the professional veneer I’ve cultivated.
“Now, about our approach,” Norris says, leaning forward with calculated intensity. “Beyond the Veilhas always had a distinctive gothic aesthetic—your signature style, Raven. But this documentary series requires something more… authentic.”
“Authentic is my goal,” I agree cautiously.
“Exactly!” Norris snaps his fingers, enthusiasm building. “Which is why we need to showcase your consultant’s expertise on camera. Just imagine—” his hands frame an invisible shot “—our mysterious historian emerging from the mists at St. Louis Cemetery, sharing ancient wisdom about death rituals that have been lost to time.”
The room grows uncomfortably quiet. I feel Lucius stiffen beside me, though his expression remains impressively neutral.
