Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Sophia
The next three days pass in a blur of restructuring.
I send a carefully worded email to Dr. Blackwell, explaining a refinement in my methodological approach with one of my primary sources. I don’t mention Flavius by name—just describe shifting from intensive interviews to collaborative documentation work.
Her response arrives within hours: “Interesting approach, Sophia. The collaborative angle could work, though I’d encourage you to keep mining that particular source for his performance insights—those are the real treasure.
The crowd psychology, the theatrical elements, the performer’s perspective on spectacle.
That’s what will make your work stand out.
Don’t let the collaboration distract from extraction where it counts. ”
I stare at the email for a long moment, something uneasy churning in my stomach. Then, I close my laptop and continue working.
I update my fellowship documentation, noting the shift in my work with Flavius from subject interviews to literacy instruction and healing methodology collaboration.
I deepen my research sessions with Thrax, Cassius, Lucius, and the others—gladiators I’ve been interviewing all along, but whose perspectives now move to the forefront of my work.
The material is good. Better than good. My research doesn’t suffer from the change; if anything, it deepens as their different perspectives become more prominent.
But I’d be lying if I said my mind was fully on the work.
Because twice a day, I still meet with Flavius in Conference Room B.
But now, instead of me asking questions while he dredges up painful memories for my academic benefit, we sit side by side.
I teach him letters, sounds, the building blocks of English literacy.
He teaches me pressure points, breathing techniques, and the healing knowledge he’s carried since childhood.
Equal exchange. True collaboration.
And every session crackles with the awareness of what we’re waiting for.
Every time our hands brush passing papers, I feel it like a shock.
Every time he leans close to see what I’ve written, I catch his scent and have to fight not to turn my head, not to close that last inch between us.
Every time he looks at me with those green eyes, I see the same want I’m feeling reflected back at me.
He never pushes. Never asks when I’ll be ready. But sometimes I catch him staring at my mouth when he thinks I’m not looking. Sometimes his hand lingers on mine a fraction too long when he’s showing me a pressure point. Sometimes the air between us gets so charged I can barely breathe.
On the morning of the third day, during our literacy session, he successfully reads an entire paragraph from a children’s book without help. His finger traces under each word, and his accent makes “The cat sat on the mat” sound somehow both charming and determined.
When he finishes, he looks up with such unguarded pride that something in my chest cracks open. “I did it,” he says, wonder in his voice. “I read words. They made sense.”
“You did,” I confirm, and I’m smiling so wide my face hurts. “Flavius, you’re learning so fast. At this rate, you’ll be reading novels by summer.”
“You are good teacher.” He closes the book carefully, reverently. “You make me feel… not stupid. Even when I struggle.”
“You’re not stupid,” I say firmly. “You’re brilliant. Your brain just didn’t have access to written language before. But now that it does?” I gesture at the book. “You’re absorbing it like a sponge.”
He studies me for a long moment, and I see the question forming before he asks it. His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “You finished? The… restructuring?”
My heart kicks against my ribs. “Almost. There’s one last piece of paperwork—I need to submit the final documentation update to the fellowship committee this afternoon. Just a formality, but I want everything completely finished before…” I trail off, heat flooding my face.
“Before?” he prompts, and there’s something in his voice that makes my stomach flutter.
“Before I collect my raincheck,” I finish quietly.
Something blazes in his eyes—hope, heat, and certainty all tangled together. “How long? For paperwork?”
“A few hours. I’ll submit it after lunch, and then…” I swallow. “Then it’s done. Completely done.”
“And then?” His voice has gone low and rough.
“And then I was hoping I could come find you. At the stables. This afternoon.”
His hand comes up, gentle but firm, to cup my jaw. The touch sends fire racing through my veins. “Do not ask if I still want. Answer is yes. Was yes three days ago. Is yes now. Will be yes when you find me.”
Heat floods my cheeks. His thumb strokes across my cheekbone, and I have to fight not to lean into his palm, not to turn my head and press my lips to his wrist.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can,” I whisper.
“I will wait.”
When we part ways, he catches my hand at the door.
“Sophia?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.” His thumb traces my knuckles—slow, deliberate, making me acutely aware of every nerve ending in my hand. No. My whole body. “For doing this right. For seeing me as… worth the wait.”
“Always,” I whisper.
Subject: Methodological Refinement Update: Vitale Research Project
The collaborative approach has enriched rather than limited the scope of my research. Multiple gladiatorial perspectives provide crucial triangulation of data.
I read it through twice, making sure every word is precise, professional, unassailable. Then I hit send and close my laptop with shaking hands.
Done.
I change clothes—settling on a gold linen blouse that Laura once said made my eyes look brighter, and my good jeans. My hands tremble as I button them. My stomach is doing acrobatics.
At exactly two o’clock, I grab my jacket and head for the stables.
I find Flavius in Apollo’s stall, brushing down the big gelding with the steady, meditative focus he brings to everything physical. The afternoon sun slants through the open stable doors, turning his red hair copper-bright, catching in the dust motes that dance in the warm air.
For a moment, I just watch him. The easy competence in his movements.
The gentle way he handles the massive horse.
The subconscious grace that speaks of a lifetime training his body to move with purpose.
The way his shoulders shift under his shirt.
The strength in his forearms. The careful precision of his scarred hands.
I want those hands on me.
The thought hits me with startling clarity, and heat floods my face.
Then he looks up and sees me.
Everything in his expression shifts—surprise, then hope, then hunger so naked it steals my breath.
“Hi.” I haven’t heard my voice sound this young and shy for years.
“Hi.” He sets down the brush, his full attention on me now. Apollo snorts, displeased at the interruption, but Flavius doesn’t look away from my face. His gaze tracks over me—my face, my hair, down to my mouth where it lingers before coming back up to meet my gaze.
My heart is hammering so hard I’m sure he can hear it. “I finished. The last of the documentation. Everything’s submitted. Officially, my work with you is collaborative literacy education and healing methodology documentation. No more research extraction. No more power imbalance.”
“So we are…” He searches for the word. “Equal now?”
“We’re partners,” I say. “Equals.”
“And raincheck?”
I step closer. Close enough to catch his scent. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his body. “I’m here to collect it.”
The smile that breaks across his face is bright and unguarded and absolutely devastating. “About time, little scholar.”
“It’s been three days.”
“Felt longer.” He closes the distance between us in two strides, and suddenly we’re close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes, close enough that my breasts brush his chest with each breath, close enough that if I just rose up on my toes…
Except this time, there’s nothing stopping us. No ethical shadow. No power differential. Just him and me and three days of pent-up wanting that’s about to find its release.
“So,” I breathe. “Where were we?”
His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone exactly the way I’ve been replaying in my mind for three days straight. The touch sends electricity racing through my nervous system, but this time there’s no guilt attached to the sensation. Just pure, overwhelming need.
“I believe,” he says, voice dropping low and rough, “you were going to ask me for kiss.”
“I was.” My voice comes out breathy, wanting. “Am. I am asking you to kiss me.”
I draw a shaky breath, the space between us suddenly too small.
“Please,” I add, and the word comes out almost desperate. “Flavius, please—”
“You are certain?” His thumb strokes across my cheek, and I lean into the touch without thinking. “Because if I kiss you now, I will not want to stop. Have been thinking about this for three days. Dreaming. Will not be able to keep it… quick. Or gentle. Or—”
“Good.” My hands come up to fist in his shirt, pulling him closer. “I don’t want brief. I don’t want gentle. I want—”
His eyes go dark. “Sophia—”
“Kiss me,” I demand. “Now. Please. I’ve been so good, I’ve waited, I did everything right, and now I just need—”
“Bene,” he breathes, and there’s so much feeling in that one word—relief and want and barely restrained hunger. Then, rougher, in Latin: “Di immortales, I have wanted—”
And then he kisses me.
The first brush of his mouth is soft for maybe half a second. Then, as if three days of restraint breaks all at once, the kiss turns hungry.
His hand slides from my jaw into my hair, angling my head exactly where he wants it. His other arm wraps around my waist, hauling me against him until there’s no space left between us. And his mouth—God, his mouth moves over mine like he’s been starving for this.