I sat frozen, eyes glued to his hands as he extracted first the dagger and toga, then the food I had squirreled away. A frown tugged at the corners of his mouth and the shadows cast by the flickering candlelight made his eyes seem hollow.

He twirled the dagger in his hand, light flickering off the iron blade. I tracked the movement when he flipped it once, twice, three times into the air, catching it alternately by the blade and hilt.

Swallowing against my dry mouth, I silently extended my hand. The gladiator gave me a level stare before flipping the dagger again and offering it to me hilt-first. I snatched it from him and lunged forward, knocking him backwards onto the ground. My knee dug into the bruise on his chest and I pressed the dagger against his throat.

Then I stopped. I couldn't help it. The dagger pressed against the scarred skin of his throat, but I couldn't make myself push it any deeper.

Through gritted teeth, he asked, "What were you going to do about your tattoo?"

My eyes flicked down to my arm, where I could just see the edge of the tattoo that marked me a slave. That moment of distraction cost me.

The gladiator bucked up, grabbing my wrist and levering the knife from his throat. His hips twisted to the side and I found myself slammed into the ground, gasping for breath as my lungs struggled against the sudden weight crushing my chest. The gladiator applied pressure to my wrist, steadily increasing it until I snarled in pain and dropped the dagger.

"That wasn't very nice," he said in my ear. "If I let you up, are you going to try to stab me again?"

I had already proven I couldn't. I shook my head, and the gladiator lifted himself off me, snatching up the dagger before I could even begin to reach for it. Keeping a wary eye on me, he crossed back toward the door. Horror flooded my veins with ice, freezing me in place.

All he did, though, was return to his seat there, idly flipping the dagger into the air again.

As I sat back up, he rubbed at his bruise, giving me a reproachful look. He pointed the tip of the dagger at me. "How were you going to get past the guard at the door? How were you going to get out of Rome?"

I frowned, crossing my arms over my chest. "What does it matter to you?"

"Were you going to wear that?" he asked, gesturing toward the toga. "Hope no one wondered why a Gaulish woman was parading about in the clothes of a free citizen?"

It infuriated me that he had immediately picked out the weakest point of my plan. Romans had blue eyes, but my fair skin and pale blonde hair was sure to draw suspicion. 

When I didn't answer, he nodded sagely. "You know what happens to runaways, don't you?"

"I would rather die than let him touch me again," I snarled, shocked even as the words passed my lips. I didn't need to explain myself to him. But the words just kept coming. "Even if they catch me and torture me, I can hope that I'll be so mutilated he won't want me anymore."

The gladiator had his head bowed, but I could see enough of his face to be surprised by his expression. Pure wrath twisted his aquiline features.

Then, he tilted his head, expression turning thoughtful. Slowly, he lifted his eyes to meet mine. They glittered like emeralds in the candlelight. "Do you want him dead?"

All I could do was blink. The gladiator stared at me, waiting for an answer. He couldn't possibly mean what I thought he did...could he?

"I just want to leave," I whispered.

The gladiator pushed off the door to crouch just in front of me. The knife still glittered in his hand. Slowly, he grasped my chin, tilting my head back so I was forced to look at him. "That isn't what I asked."

I lifted my hands and shoved him away, shooting to my feet and knocking over the candle in my haste. It sputtered for a brief moment before snuffing out, plunging us into complete darkness.

"That seems appropriate," he muttered, and I heard as he rose to his feet. "Some things should only be discussed in the dark."

"Why?" I asked breathlessly. "Why would you offer such a thing?"

He snorted and took a few tentative steps forward. I flinched when his fingers brushed my chest, just beneath my collarbone. He moved to place his hand on my shoulder, drawing just a little nearer.

"Your master is everything I hate," he whispered. "He's weak. A small, pathetic man who revels in blood as long as he doesn't have to take it or risk it. Who forces himself on a woman who can't fight back. Putting him out of your misery would bring me a great deal of pleasure."

"You would be crucified," I said, managing to force the words past a tight throat. "They would use your body to light the roads."

The rebellion led by Spartacus had been nearly a decade ago, but the memories of what had been done to the Thracian and his followers ran deep among the slave population.

"Only if we're caught."

Silence deep as the darkness blinding me fell over the tiny room. Then the gladiator sucked in a small breath, like he realized what he'd just said. The spell was broken and I stumbled backwards, fetching up against the wall.

"But you said—" I began, then had to try again. "Why would you take such a risk?"

"Because I'm still a slave." He all but spat the word. "I might be well fed and even valued, but I'm still a godsdamned slave. It's a hard thing for a free man to be."

I sagged back against the wall. For some reason, I had believed he was born into slavery, as Abelia had been. She longed for freedom, but did not know what it was to be free. Abby had only ever known freedom. My understanding of his fury crashed into Abelia's confusion, churning my stomach.

"You were free?" I asked softly.

A long silence followed. Then: "Yes."

The curt answer rippled with a dozen different emotions. A shuffled footstep made me tense and I flinched violently when he brushed my arm. When I didn't knock his hand away or try to move, he trailed his fingers over my skin, up to my throat. Gooseflesh erupted over my body when he lightly cupped my face.

"The lanista keeps too close an eye on me," he whispered, his breath fanning over my cheekbone. He was so close I could feel the warmth radiating from his body. A strange mix of repulsion and longing whipped my stomach even more, making me feel ill.

Like he could sense my discomfort, the gladiator dropped his hand, taking a small step back.

"I've been waiting for an opportunity to leave," he continued. "Now one has thrown itself into my path. The two of us together would have a better chance."

That seemed...exceedingly unlikely. I didn't know how to fight, I likely couldn't travel as fast or hard as he would be able to, my coloring would draw attention, unlike his honey-gold skin and dark, curling hair. I would in no way be an asset to him.

On the other hand... If he was willing to take such a risk, who was I to deny such a favor from the fickle gods?

Again, it was almost as though he could sense the shift in my thoughts. 

"My weapons," he asked quietly. "Where would they be?"

My mouth dry as a salt mine, I hesitated for a long moment. Did I really want to do this? Did I really want to risk unimaginable pain and a horrible death?

You were free?

Yes.

His stark answer rang in my head, filling me with a want so powerful I nearly gasped. Freedom was a terrible thing to lose. I'd seen some men driven mad by that terribleness. Perhaps he also suffered a sort of madness. One that made him reckless. Desperate. 

The phantom feeling of the master's body against mine wrapped around me, bringing bile to my throat. I didn't know if that was a feeling that would ever go away, even if I succeeded in this insane plan of mine.

But I did know I would never need to suffer the presence of the man again if I made this choice.

If I chose this possibly mad gladiator and his familiar eyes over a horror I had learned to live through.

My resolve hardened into something razor sharp.

"I can get them."