Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Flavius
If the gods want to help, they should fix leather straps instead of destinies.
I test the edge of the practice shield, running my fingers along the stitching. The leather’s wearing thin—usable today, maybe tomorrow, not much longer. I cut the old loop free and feed a new strip through, pulling it tight, measuring the tension by feel.
Late-afternoon light turns the training yard gold. Behind me, the stables smell of hay, horse, and leather. Under that, faint and green, drifts the scent from the Roman garden.
That’s where she went. Hours ago now.
After she sent the complaint this morning, after we ate breakfast in her tiny cabin like it was the most normal thing in the world—her laptop on one side of the table, my tea on the other, her bare feet tucked under my thigh for warmth.
I loop the leather through the buckle and tug. It holds. Good.
Movement at the edge of the yard pulls my attention.
Sophia.
She’s walking toward me with purpose, not the aimless drift of someone killing time.
The late sun catches in her dark hair, and even from here I can see something has shifted in the way she carries herself.
Lighter. As if yesterday she filed the complaint and set down a weight.
Today she looks like she decided to leave it where it fell.
I feel it in my chest, immediate and undeniable.
She reaches the fence rail and doesn’t stop. Just opens the gate like she has every right—which she does—and comes straight across the sand to me.
“Hi,” she says.
The word lands soft but deliberate. Not a question. An arrival.
I set down the shield. “Hi.”
For a second we just look at each other. Her eyes are clear and bright. There’s color in her cheeks. She’s wearing one of her soft cardigans over a t-shirt, jeans dusty at the knees like she kneeled on the ground somewhere.
My hands want to pull her close. I’ve been good all day—gave her space while she worked, didn’t hover, let her process whatever happened in that garden on her own terms.
But she’s here now. Close enough to touch.
So I do.
I reach out and tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear, letting my fingers linger at her jaw. “You look different.”
She leans into the touch without hesitation, and something in me settles. This. This is what we are now. Not careful. Not performing. Just… us.
“I feel different,” she says. “Good different.”
“Garden help?”
Her mouth curves. “The garden was… a lot.”
I wait. She steps closer, close enough that I catch the faint scent of rosemary on her skin. Her hand comes up to rest on my chest, right over my heart. The touch is casual. Familiar. Like she’s done it a hundred times instead of just a few.
“Something happened,” she says, looking up at me. “Something weird.”
I cover her hand with mine, keeping it there. “Weird how?”
She exhales slowly. “I think Fortuna talked to me.”
I go still. Not tense. Just… listening.
“You are not joking,” I say.
“I’m not joking.” She bites her lip, then releases it.
“I was spiraling about the complaint and whether I’d just torched my career, and then she was just…
there. Made of light and metal and something like falling coins.
She said I push so hard because I’ve been taught I’m too much and not enough.
That I think standing between worlds means I belong to neither. ”
A grin tugs at my mouth. “Goddess told you to stop being polite?”
“Basically.” Her eyes crinkle. “Very on-brand for Fortuna, honestly. No comfort. Just truth.”
“And you feel…?”
“Better.” She shakes her head as if she can’t quite believe it herself. “I feel like I filed the complaint, and the wheel started turning and Fortuna showed up to say ‘yes, good, keep going.’” Her fingers curl into my shirt. “Does that sound insane?”
“No.”
She blinks. “No?”
I tilt my head, considering. “Did she give good advice?”
“Brutally good advice.”
“Then I like her.”
Sophia laughs—real and bright and startled. The sound makes my chest feel too full. I want to hear her laugh like that every day.
“You’re just… accepting this?” she asks. “You’re not going to suggest I’m hallucinating or stress-dreaming?”
“You are too smart to invent goddess,” I say simply. “If your mind makes goddess, she tells you to be safe. To hide. This Fortuna tells you to be big. To fight. She is real.”
She stares at me for a long moment, something soft and wondering in her eyes. Then she rises up on her toes and kisses me.
It’s quick. Warm. The kind of kiss that says thank you and I needed that and you’re exactly right all at once.
When she pulls back, I’m smiling.
“What?” she asks.
“I like when you kiss me for no reason, Sophia.”
“That wasn’t no reason. That was very good reason.”
“Mm. What reason?”
“You didn’t laugh at me.” Her voice goes quiet. “You just… believed me.”
I turn my hand over, threading our fingers together. “Why would I laugh? The goddess saved me from ice. Brought me here. Why would she not talk to woman who is changing everything?”
She swallows hard. “My mother thinks I’m seeing patterns that aren’t there. My committee will think I’m paranoid.”
“You see patterns because patterns are there,” I say. “Is not same as making them up.”
“When did you get so wise?”
“I am not wise. Just very old.”
“Two thousand years old and you still can’t take a compliment.”
I grin. “Is in the blood. All gladiators are bad at compliments.”
“That’s not how blood works.”
“No?” I pull her closer by our joined hands. “Then maybe is just me.”
We stand like that, hands linked, close enough to feel each other’s warmth. Her thumb traces small circles over my knuckles. I watch the movement, memorizing it.
“So Fortuna told you to keep fighting,” I say.
“Fortuna told me that displeasure isn’t ruin. That people will be angry I’m not shrinking anymore, but their anger isn’t a catastrophe.” She looks up at me. “That I need to stop confusing difficulty with death.”
“Smart goddess.”
“Terrifying goddess.” But she says it with affection. “She also said the wheel has started turning and I need to keep my shoulder to it.”
I consider that. “Fortuna’s wheel.”
“The Wheel of Chance. Or Fate. Or Fortune. Depending on the translation.” She shifts closer, and I realize we’ve been slowly gravitating toward each other this whole conversation. “I guess filing the complaint was pushing the wheel. Now it’s moving.”
“And you are ready for where it goes?”
“I don’t know where it goes.” Her gaze is steady. “But I know I’m not stopping.”
Pride flares hot in my chest. This woman. Standing in the sand with dust on her jeans and a goddess’s words in her mind, choosing to fight instead of disappear.
I want to kiss her properly. Pin her against the fence and remind her what we’re waiting for. What comes after.
Instead, I lift our joined hands and press my lips to her knuckles. “Then the wheel turns,” I say against her skin. “I turn with you.”
Her breath catches. “You don’t have to—”
“I know.” Her hand lowers between us, but I don’t let go. “I choose to.”
For a second, I think she might cry. Her eyes go bright and wet. Then she shakes her head sharply, blinking it away. “Stop being perfect. It’s annoying.”
I laugh. “I am many things. Perfect is not one.”
“Disagree.” She tugs on my hand, pulling me toward the shield rack. “Come on. Teach me how to fix these things. I want to be useful.”
“You are already useful. You file complaints and talk to goddesses.”
“I want to be useful with my hands.” She pauses, then flushes bright red. “That came out wrong.”
The innuendo hangs in the air between us. I could let it go. Be a gentle man.
But her cheeks are pink and her eyes are bright. We’ve been very good all day about respecting boundaries, and right now I want to make her laugh.
“Your hands were very useful the other night,” I say, voice dropping low. “I remember.”
Her mouth falls open. “Flavius!”
“What? Is truth.”
“You can’t just—we’re in public—” She gestures around at the empty training yard.
I lean in close, voice for her alone. “You said you wanted to be useful with your hands. I agree. Very useful. I have evidence.”
She makes a strangled sound and smacks my chest. “You’re terrible.”
“You like when I am terrible.”
“I—” She stops. Glares. Then ruins it by smiling. “Okay, yes. I do. But we’re supposed to be having a serious conversation about leather repair.”
“We can have serious conversation.” I pick up a shield and hand it to her. “This strap is bad. Needs fixing. Very serious.”
She takes the shield, fighting a smile. “You’re laughing at me.”
“Little bit.”
“I thought you were this stoic, serious gladiator.”
“I am very serious.” I crouch down to grab a new leather strap and glance up at her. “Especially about what you promised for after the fight.”
Her breath hitches. “We’re not talking about that right now.”
“You brought up hands.”
“I meant shield repair!”
“Mm.” I stand, moving close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet my eyes. “But now we are both thinking about other things, yes?”
Her pupils dilate. “That’s… not fair.”
“You said you wanted fun. To relax.” I trace one finger down her arm, watching her shiver. “Are you relaxed?”
“The opposite of relaxed.”
“Good.” I step back, grinning. “Now you know how I feel all day. Watching you work. Remembering.”
She stares at me, cheeks flushed, eyes dark. Then she laughs—helpless and startled and warm. “You’re mean.”
“I am patient.” I gesture at the shield she’s holding. “Come. I show you how to fix. Keep your hands busy with safe things.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Very much.”
She shakes her head, but she’s smiling. And for the next twenty minutes, I teach her how to replace leather straps. How to measure tension by feel. How to test the connection before trusting it.
She’s good with her hands—careful, precise, focused. Asks smart questions. Remembers everything I say.
And every time our fingers brush, heat flickers between us. Acknowledged but not acted upon. Present but not overwhelming.
This, I think. This is what we are building. Not just the heat—though gods, the heat is there, simmering under everything. But also this. The ease. The laughter. The way she can tell me about goddesses and I believe her. And the way I can tease her and she laughs instead of withdrawing.
Partnership. Real and chosen and growing stronger every day.
She shivers. “Flavius…”
“Tomorrow after training,” I say quietly, “we will have breakfast again. In your cabin. And you tell me more about what Fortuna said. And I will tell you what I see when I fight.” I lean down until our foreheads almost touch. “We will talk like this. Open. Honest. No more hiding.”
“I like that plan.”
“Good.” I press a kiss to her forehead, then force myself to step back. “Now go. Do your paperwork. Be brilliant.”
She grins. “What will you do?”
“Finish shields. Think about after the fight. Try not to catch fire.”
Her laugh is bright and warm and completely unguarded. “Same.”
She starts to walk away, then turns back. “Flavius?”
“Yes?”
“I’m glad I came here.” Her eyes are soft. Certain. “To Second Chance. To Missouri. To you.”
The words hit me square in the chest.
“I am glad too,” I say. Rough. Honest. “Very glad.”
She smiles—real and bright and just for me—then walks away toward her cabin.
I watch until she disappears around the corner of the main building.
Then I exhale and sink down onto the nearest bench, feeling like I just fought ten rounds in the arena.
That woman.
She talks to goddesses. Files complaints against powerful people. Stands in the sand and learns shield repair with her clever hands. Kisses me like it’s natural. Looks at me like I’m worth seeing.
Trouble, my old trainers would say.
They would be right.
I run a hand through my hair and grin at nothing.
Tomorrow I will show her the man the arena made. The fighter. The one who survived by being faster, smarter, and more aware than everyone else.
And after that, when the complaint has turned the wheel as far as it will go, when the fight is won or lost…
After that, I will take apart the woman who talks to goddesses and puts her shoulder to the wheel.
She promised.
I am very good at collecting on promises.