The air was thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and damp stone. In the dim torchlight, the underground chambers felt more like a tomb than a holding cell, a place where men were discarded until they were needed to die for the crowd’s amusement.

And yet, here she was.

The sister of Caracalla and Geta. The last reminder of the throne that should have been his.

Lucius sat against the wall, one knee drawn up, the fresh gash across his chest still raw and open. He hadn’t bothered to clean it. Not yet. Pain was irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was the figure standing before him—silk where there should be armor, gold where there should be rusted chains. She didn’t belong here.

Dark eyes flickered up to meet hers. A slow smirk curled at the corner of his mouth, but there was no humor in it. Only something sharp, something dangerous.

“You keep coming back,” he murmured, voice rough, rasping from the dust of the arena. “I wonder what your dear brothers would say if they knew their precious sister liked to lurk in the dark with a gladiator.”

He leaned forward, forearms resting against his knees, his gaze never leaving hers. He should hate her. Gods knew he wanted to. But hatred was simple, and nothing about this was simple.

“Tell me, princess,” he drawled, voice low. “Do you come here because you pity me?” A pause. Then, quieter, more dangerous—“Or because you can’t look away?”