"Wait," Fulvia whispered.
He paused, surprised by the grip. Though her touch was light, it carried more weight than she perhaps intended.
"Stay." She said.
Nathan slowly turned his head toward the figure sprawled across the bed—Fulvia. The soft flicker of candlelight painted her silhouette in warm golden hues, her long light brown hair splayed like wildfire across the pillow. Her fingers, slender yet insistent, reached out and gently gripped his arm, halting his retreat.
"Do you need something else?" Nathan asked quietly, his voice steady but gentle.
He could see it clearly—her glassy eyes, the flushed tint blooming across her cheeks, and the faint, unfocused sway in her movements. She was intoxicated. He had wanted to speak with her, truly, to share something more meaningful. But looking at her now, he knew this wasn’t the moment. Not when she was in such a state.
"I need you to accompany me for the night, Septimius," Fulvia said, her voice soft, slurred, and soaked in warmth. A tipsy smile tugged at her lips, playful and inviting, though tinged with genuine longing.
"You’re drunk, Fulvia," Nathan said, not accusingly, but with a calm sobriety.
Fulvia’s smile didn’t falter. If anything, it deepened with a flash of defiance in her wine-touched eyes. "Even drunk, I’m not stupid, Septimius," she murmured. Her hand slid lower, pulling gently at his sleeve. "Now lay down with me."
For a moment, he hesitated—torn between sensibility and fatigue. But the day had been long and exhausting. War-weary thoughts clung to his mind like cobwebs. And perhaps, just for this moment, he allowed himself to surrender—not to desire, but to the need for peace, for quiet.
Wordlessly, he eased down onto the bed beside her.
Fulvia turned toward him immediately, her body instinctively drawn to his. The folds of her Roman tunic slipped slightly as she moved, revealing a generous view of her cleavage. Her breasts, soft and full, pressed against the bed linens, threatening to spill free. It was clear she wore nothing beneath the fabric. The candlelight caressed her curves, casting shadows that danced along the edges of her body.
Nathan’s eyes lingered for a heartbeat too long. He wasn’t blind—Fulvia was breathtaking. Even through his hardened heart, carved by vengeance and loss, he could not deny her beauty. There was a disarming softness to her tonight, a vulnerability that made her even more alluring.
"What do you want in your life, Septimius?" she asked suddenly, her voice quieter now. More sincere.
Nathan blinked, the question catching him off guard. He turned his gaze toward the ceiling for a moment, the shadows of flickering flames painting abstract memories across his vision.
What did he want?
There was a time—not so long ago—when he would have answered without hesitation. Vengeance. Retribution. Blood. Two years ago, that was all he had. That single driving force had kept him alive through madness and fire.
But things had changed.
So much had changed since then.
He’d met women—extraordinary women—who had reshaped the contours of his broken heart. And after the horrors of the Trojan War, after standing at the edge of annihilation and somehow walking back from it, his perspective had shifted. Revenge no longer sat as the sole monarch of his desires.
"I want to live peacefully," Nathan said at last, his voice low, thoughtful. "With all my women. Somewhere far away, where no one can ever hurt us again."
The words lingered in the air like incense smoke, warm and wistful.
He could already see it in his mind. Not in Tenebria—not in that cursed, blood-stained kingdom. No, this place he envisioned was untouched by war, hidden from the madness of empires and divine conspiracies.
A home.
A real one.
A castle nestled in the arms of nature, perhaps surrounded by forests or mountains, far from the chaos of the world. A place where laughter echoed through wide halls, where children’s feet pounded down corridors, and his women could live freely—not as pawns or rulers, but simply as themselves.
Of course, he knew that some of them had obligations—to their people, their thrones, their bloodlines. But responsibilities didn’t mean imprisonment. He didn’t expect them to stay by his side always—but he would build something that always awaited their return.
Yet, for all his dreaming, Nathan knew one thing stood in the way of that peace. A threat that loomed like a blade at the back of his neck.
The Divine Knights.
Even now, his hatred for them hadn’t fully faded. It was no longer an obsession—no longer the all-consuming fire it had once been—but the danger they posed was still very real. They were unstable, unpredictable, and far too powerful to be allowed to roam free. Their existence was a sword constantly hanging above his dreams.
Before he could ever think about peace—before the castle, the children, the quiet—he had to eliminate that threat.
They had to die.
Only then could his vision of sanctuary truly begin.
"That’s a beautiful dream, Septimius," Fulvia said softly, her voice carrying a trace of wistfulness. "But I don’t think peace suits you. Not entirely. I see you more as a conqueror... someone leading armies, draped in banners, feared by kings and followed by legions."
Her eyes, half-lidded from wine but still sharp, met his with an unsettling certainty. She wasn’t mocking him—there was admiration in her voice, and perhaps something deeper. Fascination.
"You hold a very high opinion of me," Nathan replied dryly, raising an eyebrow.
He didn’t laugh. If anything, he found her assumption slightly amusing—because it told him she didn’t really know him. Not yet. Not fully.
"I have good eyes when it comes to understanding men," Fulvia replied smoothly, reclining back on one elbow. The candlelight shimmered against her bare shoulder as her tunic slipped further down her arm.
"And what about you?" Nathan asked, his voice calm but curious. "What’s your dream then? To marry someone powerful? A man with titles and wealth, enough influence in the Senate to shield you from the real world? Live out your days in luxury and safety, surrounded by servants and silk?"
His words weren’t cruel—but they carried a faint edge of irony. From what he had gathered so far, that did seem to be the life she was aiming for.
"Is that so wrong?" Fulvia shot back, her lips twitching into a half-smile. "All I ever wanted was a little excitement in this otherwise dull, repetitive life. I thought Marcus Antoinus would give me that. He’s always in the middle of everything, always the center of Rome’s attention..."
"Behind Caesar," Nathan added.
Fulvia burst out laughing, the sound soft and melodic, filling the chamber with warmth. She turned her gaze back to him, playful and strangely honest.
"Do you hate Marcus Antoinus?" she asked, clearly intrigued by his tone.
"Hate?" Nathan repeated. He gave it a moment’s thought, then shook his head. "He isn’t significant enough for me to hate. But if I had to choose—between letting him live or seeing him die—I’d choose the latter."
His answer was blunt. Unapologetic. And true.
Fulvia’s expression shifted—just slightly. Her smile remained, but her eyes gleamed with something darker now. "That’s funny... I’d choose the same," she whispered.
Nathan tilted his head and gave her a crooked smile. "You’re fiercer than you look."
It was said partly in jest, but part of him was genuinely surprised. Speaking so casually—so carelessly—about the death of a man like Marcus Antoinus was dangerous. Treasonous, even. Roman nobility didn’t tolerate such thoughts, let alone whisper them in darkened bedrooms.
And yet here she was, not only agreeing with him but doing so without hesitation. Perhaps she wasn’t just a bored aristocrat after all.
Fulvia’s expression changed again—this time more deliberate. Her gaze turned smoldering as she sat up, the folds of her tunic shifting once more, revealing more of her smooth skin beneath. Then, in one sudden, fluid motion, she climbed on top of him, straddling his waist with surprising grace for someone supposedly drunk.
Nathan blinked and stared up at her, his expression unreadable. Her face hovered just above his, her long hair cascading down to brush his cheeks.