The moment we reached the room at the far end of the hallway, I tapped the keycard against the pad and pushed the door open.
Marcus stepped in after me, his gaze sweeping the space with quiet, measured curiosity, both of our duffel bags still slung over his shoulder as if they weighed nothing. He must've been used to carrying heavier things.
"It is...modest," he said, taking in the single queen bed positioned at the center of the room. Warm lighting softened the space. The carpet, the small desk by the wall and a flat-screen mounted nearly across from it.
"It will do, for the night," I said, walking over to close and lock the door behind him. "I'm sorry there's only one bed. The lady at the front claimed the place is full, though I think—"
"I can take the ground," he offered evenly.
"No," I said at once, shaking my head as he set our bags down on the table across the bed. "You're injured. I'm not letting you sleep on the floor. You take the bed, I'll—"
"I will not permit it," he said, more firmly now.
I turned to him.
"A Roman does not take comfort while a woman is made to endure hardship in his stead," he continued. "I have slept upon stone, upon earth soaked with rain. This is nothing to me."
"And I'm not letting you prove that tonight," I shot back. "You're still healing."
For a moment, neither of us moved.
Then he exhaled slowly, as if choosing his next words with care.
"There is a simpler course," he said.
I frowned. "Which is?"
"That we share it."
The words hung between us.
Before I could respond, he continued, his tone steady, deliberate. "I give you my word. As a soldier and as a man of honor, that I will not overstep. You shall have your space, untouched. I would sooner fall upon my sword than bring you dishonor."
My breath caught slightly at that.
"You don't have to be that dramatic," I muttered, though my voice had softened. "This is no longer the Roman times."
"It is not drama," he said quietly. "It is a vow."
Silence stretched between us again.
The room suddenly felt much smaller than it had, moments ago.
I looked away first. "Fine," I said. "Just for the night."
Marcus inclined his head, solemn as ever.
"As you wish."
I cleared my throat and glanced at him.
He was staring at the bed like it had personally offended him.
I turned quickly and walked over to the duffel bags behind him, rummaging through mine to grab my toiletries and my change of clothes.
"You can sit," I said, gesturing to the bed. "Or...watch some television. I'll go shower first, then I'll help you change your bandages."
"Television?" he repeated, the word unfamiliar on his tongue.
"Uncle Alan hasn't shown you?" I asked, reaching for the remote on the bedside table.
At his silence, I pointed it toward the screen and pressed a button.
The television flickered to life.
Marcus turned slowly, his entire body angling toward the mounted screen just as a loud commercial burst into motion. The bright colors, fast voices, shifting images.
He stilled. Completely.
His eyes widened, not in fear, but in stunned disbelief.
"What...manner of spectacle is this?" he murmured.
I couldn't help it. I smiled.
"It's just a television," I said, stepping closer, my shoulder nearly brushing his as I reached past him. "It shows different programs. News, stories...nonsense, mostly."
I pressed a few buttons, flipping through channels.
The images changed rapidly. From people talking, to music and flashing scenes. "It's the best way to learn about the modern world, if you ask me."
Marcus's gaze followed every shift, intensely focused, like he was trying to understand the mechanics behind it.
"I can choose?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said softly. "Here—" I placed the remote in his hand, my fingers brushing his for a brief second longer than necessary. "This lets you switch between them. Just press these."
He looked down at the device, then back at the screen, then at me like I had just handed him something far more dangerous than it was.
I let out a small laugh. "You'll figure it out."
For a moment, I lingered, watching the way his attention flickered between the remote and the moving images, his confusion almost...endearing.
I only stepped back when he finally plopped on the edge of the mattress, focused on switching channels.
"I'll be quick," i said, already turning toward the bathroom.
And this time, I didn't look back as I closed the door behind me.
I didn't linger in the shower. I let the hot water wash away the grime, the adrenaline, the lingering tremor in my hands. And by the time I stepped out, the mirror had fogged over completely. For a moment, I simply stood there, palms pressed against the sink, breathing.
Then I forced myself to move.
I changed quickly into an oversized shirt and a pair of shorts Pippa had packed for me, running a towel through my hair until it was only half-dry, damp strands clinging to my neck and shoulders.
When I stepped back into the room, Marcus was seated on the edge of the bed, his bare back slightly hunched forward, elbows on his knees. His shirt discarded over the back of the chair. The dim light catching against the planes of his bare skin, his muscles, the bandages still wrapped around his ribs.
The television flickered in front of him.
I forced myself away from his form and onto the screen, only to find a documentary and stilled, realizing what it was. Ancient Rome.
Grainy recreations of soldiers marching. Latin phrases spoken in accents that weren't quite right. Marble statues displayed in museums. Ruins of something had had once been...his world.
Marcus didn't move.
His gaze was fixed on the screen, unblinking. Haunted.
Not with fear, but with something deeper. Recognition. Loss.
Like he was watching the ghosts of a life that had already buried him.
I swallowed, my fingers tightening slightly around the towel in my hands.
"Marcus..." I said slowly.
He turned to me, those dark, haunted eyes sweeping over my face before drifting back to the screen. His jaw tightened, the muscles along his arms tensing as if he were holding something back.
"The life I once knew," he said quietly, "the empire I took great pride in...has been reduced to little more than history."
My lips thinned. "Many things have happened over the centuries. The Roman ideals...they wouldn't have stood out in modern society."
For a moment, he did not move.
Then—he rose.
Slow. Deliberate.
The shift in him was immediate. The quiet, contemplative man who had been watching the screen was gone, replaced by something sharper. Older, more dangerous.
"And what would you know of Roman ideals?" he asked, his voice low, edged with something that made my breath hitch.
I took a step back instinctively.
"I didn't mean—"
"You speak of them as though they were trivial," he continued, advancing. "As though they held no weight."
"I'm just saying, things have changed—"
"And you believe that makes them matter less?"
I swallowed, my back pressing against the wall before I realized I had nowhere else to go.
"Marcus—"
He was standing right in front of me. Close, too close.
His hand came up, not rough but firm. His finger curling beneath my chin, tilting my face upward until I had no choice but to meet his gaze.
My breath caught.
"If I were the man I once was," he said, his voice dropping, quieter now, but no less intense, "you would have been claimed already."
My pulse stuttered.
His grip tightened, just slightly.
"Men like the hound who pursues you," he went on, his gaze burning into mine, "would not dare speak to you as he has. They would not lay claim to your name, nor raise their voice in your presence."
My chest rose and fell, uneven.
"They would not hunt you through the streets like prey," he added, softer now, but somehow more dangerous for it. "Nor would they force you into flight such as this."
His thumb brushed, almost absently, along the edge of my jaw, sending shivers down my skin, all the way to my core.
"In my world," he murmured, "they would have been dealt with long before they ever reached your door."
The room felt smaller.
Warmer.
Too quiet.
"And you..." his voice faltered, just for a fraction of a second before steadying again, "you would never be running like a thief."
And I couldn't tell if it was a promise.
Or a warning.