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⊱ AMOR MEUS AETERNUS ⊰

(Marcus Acacius x Ofc)

XII. Inopinatum

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Chapter Summary: After the tension between Lucius and Marcus, you long to escape this ancient world ASAP. Haunting memories linger even when you wake up, leaving you exhausted. To lift your spirits, Marcus offers to take you to a special place just for the two of you. Then, something unexpected happens. Rating: Explicit, 18+ MDNI, Smut Chapter W. Count and warnings: 13,2k SMUT (+18) MDNI, shameless smut, rough sex, possessive behaviour, multiple orgasms, Marcus being rough, dirty talk, creampie, ancient rome, mystery, romance, fluffy, sci-fi stuff, time travel, violence, blood, jealousy, passion, sexual tension, argument, kissing, savoring, ancient time language, intrigue, threats, a little rom-com, love triangle, mention about pregnancy authors note: explanation of latin words I used: Compluvium: a square opening in the roof of the ancient Roman atrium toward which the roof sloped and through which the rain fell into the impluvium. Deliciae meae: my darling Mea sola: My only alone. Thanks for hanging in there and for sticking with the story!

Chapter Theme...

The road had been deserted, starkly contrasting with the busy scene just an hour earlier—just the two of them and the wind—until the villa’s lamps winked like watchful eyes on the hill. Marcus brought his mount to a hard stop at the stables and dismounted with the ease of a man who had done it a thousand times, though tonight his movements were edged by an inner hurry. Moonlight fell clean and white across his shoulders, slicing the paludamentum in silver. The scar at his temple caught that cold glow and glinted like a promise of old pain.

Julius slid down from his saddle and handed the reins to a trembling slave. He lingered, watching Marcus stand motionless and head tilted toward the sky. For a beat the two brothers listened to the hush—the horse’s soft breathing, the far caw of a night bird—and the moon seemed impossibly close, whole and terrible above the villa.

“You’ve been quiet since we left the castra,” Julius said at last, coming to stand beside him. “You’re thinking you should never have returned, aren’t you?”

Marcus’s jaw tightened. He looked at his brother, then back to the moon, and answered in a voice that kept the soldier’s control but could not hide the strain beneath it. “No, Julius. That is not true.”

Julius let out a soft, wry breath and stole a glance at his brother’s face. “But you want to go back, don’t you—truly go? You feel duty pulling at you, yes, yet after all that was taken from you, after all that impossible reunion with her—you think of living in that other world -her world- that you’ve described to me. That's what you truly desire."

Marcus turned to him slowly, his eyes alive with a mixture of something like hope and something like guilt. Julius pressed on, merciful in his bluntness. “You should leave, brother. You served Rome until your bones ached. When fate brought her back to you—against all odds—you deserve to think of yourself for once. You deserve—”

Marcus placed a firm, brotherly hand on Julius's shoulder. “First, our men need to reach Ostia,” he said. “Once we’ve accomplished our plan, you’ll be ready. I’ll be prepared, and then I’ll take my leave.”

Julius’s exhale was a brittle thing. “Rhea—Rosa—she may have said she would wait. But this place… it will be hard for her. For a woman of that other world to take this life’s cadence. And my mother—” he glanced toward the villa. “My mother will be harder still.”

Marcus’s mouth closed. He dragged his hand through his hair and shook his head once. “I have been neglectful. Tomorrow I will make it up to her. I will—Or..” He let out a humorless laugh, "Or I’ll never escape the brunt of her words.”

Julius chuckled too. "With Rosa, it’s hard not to join in. She’s not someone you can easily sway. I bet she’s already crafted a long speech just for you."

“That is why I bought this for her—an old man’s bribe, perhaps. A bauble to soften her tongue.” He drew from his pouch a small string of beautful pearls and let the moonlight make them burn white. “May it be enough.”

They laughed then, thin, fragile, and when they rode the last yards toward the courtyard their smiles sank like sunken shields.

Something was wrong.

The sentries were gone from their posts. Lanterns in the outer walkways guttered and small feet hurried about with a guilty haste that did not belong to ordinary servants.

Marcus’s head snapped up. “Where are the guards? How can the watch be absent?” he barked, calling a slave forward with a voice that left no room for flinching.

The slave’s body trembled like a struck leaf. “Forgive me, Dominus—” he began, voice cracking. “They… they left this afternoon—had to…”

Julius exploded before Marcus could temper him. “What insolence is this? Left? Left without orders? By what right?” His face had become a thunderhead.

The slave answered. “They were actually following orders... your other order...”

Marcus held up a hand; he did not want to hear more of half-answers.

The other order had been clear: protect lady Rosa at all costs, no matter what. Your safety was top priority.

With a steely firmness that made the man flinch, he asked, “So, Lady Rosa... she’s left again?”

The man’s pallor deepened. His eyes darted, refusing to meet Marcus’s.

Marcus felt the first cold spike of dread. He moved inside as if pulled by a rope. “Where is she?” His voice cut through the air like a blade, sending tremors through the nearby slaves as he stepped into the atrium.

Balbina, standing, looked as if the night itself had wrapped her in dismay. Lydia sat on floor on her knees—cheeks red and wet, eyes downcast—her head bowed like a criminal. The sight of them made something in Marcus nearly break.

Ignoring them, “Rosa!” he called, the name tearing out of him.

Balbina’s answer was a groping, stammered thing. “My son—she is not here. Try—try to calm yourself—I sent guards to find her.”

“To find her?” Marcus took three strides. His paludamentum flared behind him. The world narrowed until there was only the sound of his own pulse and the distant, small sound of slaves’ whispers.

“How—where—what did you do her?” His voice rose until the whole villa seemed to hold its breath.

Balbina tried to steady herself against the parapet. “Earlier today, I was ready to send Lydia to the house of Senator Priscus,” she began, her voice wavering. “Rosa… expressed a desire to join her, and I welcomed the idea. But Lydia…” She closed her eyes tightly, searching for the words amid the turmoil. “She returned alone. I found out she never even set foot in the senator's house.” The words landed like stones.

Julius stepped in, furious. “Why, Lydia? Why didn’t you go there? And why did you come back by yourself?"

Marcus’s throat worked.

A surge of white-hot rage ignited in his brown eyes. He strode toward Lydia with the intent of ripping answers from her by force if he had to. Lydia cowered, backing, stumbling. Marcus’s hand closed about her throat before Julius could reach him—his fingers were iron.

“You will tell me now,” Marcus hissed, every syllable a threat. “Where is she? If you do not speak—by the gods I will choke the truth from you myself.”

Julius hauled at his brother’s arm, hand and face straining. “Brother, take heed! You will kill her. Let her speak.”

The scene cracked with breathless silence. Lydia’s chest heaved; terror had hollowed her eyes. When Marcus at last loosened his grip—because another part of him remembered his oath, or because Julius would not let him be to kill his own half-sister—Lydia crumpled to the ground and began to sob.

“I only wanted to have a little fun,” she whimpered, squeezed into a tiny, defenseless voice. “I had no evil in mind. She drank a lot of wine and then—she was not herself.”

Balbina, feeling angry at Lydia, interjected, "She mentioned she left her in the carriage. I was trying to make her speak before you arrived, hoping to find Rosa before something bad happen-"

Marcus’s head whipped toward her. “You left her in the carriage? Alone?” His words were small, sudden, sharp as a blade of iron.

Lydia stuttered. “I… I told the couchman to take her to the… street—” Her eyes flicked wildly, words tumbling. “To a— house—”

“Which house?” Julius demanded.

“He…Um—” she choked—“the lupanaria.” The syllable fell like a stone. In the courtyard, every head turned, bodies tensed, and eyes widened in shock.

Marcus’s knuckles whitened.

"Gods help us!" Balbina began.

Julius cursed.

Marcus lunged.

If Balbina and Julius had not been there, he would have break her neck in a flash. With Cicero's help, they grabbed him, like a human brake.

Julius’s slap landed across Lydia’s face, a sound like a snapped small branch.

“How could you?” Julius hissed—disbelief as much as anger. “Have you no honor?”

“Our family name will be tainted!" Balbina roared.

Marcus’s voice was a threatening force, sharp and ready like a spear poised to strike.

“If a single hair on her head is harmed, may the gods be my witness — I will burn you alive. I swear it!”

The threat sat in the air, heavy and absolute.

Lydia collapsed to the ground, overwhelmed by sobs and a fear so all-consuming it left her feeling small. “I hated all of you—I didnot care about any—" At that moment, Balbina struck her across the face, and Lydia tumbled once more, staring up at her mother in shock. “You foolish, disrespectful child! Do you not see what you’ve done?”

Marcus staggered back from then only when he had the measure of himself, and in that instant something colder than rage took command—pure, immediate focus. There was no more time for the luxury of blows. His mind snapped to the single task that now filled him: find Rosa.

Bring her home.

As he turned to leave through the door he had just entered, Julius followed closely behind him. He muttered prayers that were half the names of gods and half the syllables of a man who had nothing left to offer but desperate hope. “Rosa… please, gods—be with her.”

Music was the last thing you remembered—laughter, the deceptive sparkle of Lydia’s smile, the ruby-colored swirls in your wine.

As the liquid touched the rim of the glass, it made a sound like waves colliding against metal. Like waves lapping gently at the shore on a summer night.

But now they were slowing down.

Receding.

Then—darkness.

But this was not sleep.

Not a dream.

It couldn’t be.

You knew, because you had witnessed it before.

Whenever your consciousness slipped, the same thing happened.

It was happening again.

A wave came.

Everything spiraled out of control, and you could do nothing but watch.

The shadows fractured—like light catching on broken glass—splintering into sharp, jagged visions. At first, nothing but mist. Then—your sister’s voice.

Lizzie.

“Do you think she’s okay?”

The words came muffled, broken, as if whispered through water. Then another voice, anxious and tremulous—your aunt Victoria’s:

“Oh, Rose…”—your name floated like a thread in the void, almost lost—“I hope she’s alright. I really hope she’s alright.”

Their faces appeared and disappeared in the static, reaching out to you, always dissolving before you could grasp them. Then your name again.

“Rose…”

Like a sigh.

Another wave.

Your ears rang—an endless, piercing hum swallowing every word, until the sound became unbearable. Like music turned so loud you couldn’t shut it off.

And then, from the ringing, another image emerged. A heavy bronze dial, the sun and moon carved into its face, locked in an eternal chase.

The sun and moon dial.

It spun in a pale hand.

Lucilla’s.

The dial turned endlessly in her grasp, bronze gleaming, the sun devouring the moon, the moon devouring the sun. Her face was half-shadow, half-light. She looked straight at it, lips forming words sharp as knives:

“Rosa… what secret do you hide?”

The question echoed—then shattered.

Silence.

Unbearable silence.

Then came voices. Not Lizzie. Not Victoria. Not human at all. They were everywhere and nowhere, seeping beneath your skin:

“The moon is full. The path is opening.

You do not belong in this time. The blood you carry is borrowed.

Return… or perish.”

The ground shifted beneath you. You fell—into nothing, into darkness. Your stomach lurched, your knees buckled. Waves roared without sea, without shore. You were weightless, carried by the current of time itself, until your body slammed back into form.

Your eyes snapped open—two worlds colliding, shattering.

Stone walls.

Cold.

Cramped.

Dim-lit.

You sucked in a breath and nearly choked.

The air was thick—incense, sweat, soured wine, something muskier, ranker.

It coated your tongue, bitter and acrid, bile rising in your throat. It felt as though all those terrible odors had a flavor, gnawing at your stomach and constricting it from the inside.

Then your gaze caught on the walls.

You froze.

Bodies painted in lurid strokes writhed across the plaster, tangled limbs captured in crude, obscene scenes of mock intimacy. Flesh upon flesh, leering mouths frozen in eternal laughter. A wave of nausea tore through you.

You rolled to your side, hand pressed to your lips, desperate not to vomit. The floor swayed beneath you, and your head buzzed as though you’d slipped between centuries.

But memory came crashing back.

Lydia.

The wine.

The drug.

The carriage.

Her smug smile.

The way she handed you over—like a coin tossed away—into the coachman's hands, only for him to pass you off to the grip of a middle-aged woman with smudged kohl and painted lips.

And the laughter.

The voices.

The sounds.

They were still here.

Still alive.

Coming from behind the red curtain.

Your breath hitched.

The walls felt too close, pressing in on you like stone coffins. You clawed at your chest, desperate for air, but the more you tried, the less oxygen seemed to reach your lungs. Panic surged—sharp, electric, unstoppable.

“Fuck—fuck—no, no, no…” The words ripped out of you before you could stop them, raw and jagged. Your heart thudded so violently it hurt.

The red curtain shifted.

A figure entered, his shadow heavy against the lamplight. You pushed yourself back instinctively, spine hitting cold stone, your nails scraping against the damp wall.

He looked at you—first with idle appraisal, then with irritation when he heard your strangled words.

“What in Jupiter’s name are you babbling?” His voice was coarse, thick with wine. He stepped closer, eyes narrowing. “Undress, whore.”

The words slammed into you like a blow.

Your chest constricted tighter, panic spiking. Tears burned your eyes. “No—no! I’m not—don’t you fucking touch me, you asshole!” Your hands shook so badly you could barely keep them up. “Stay the fuck away from me!”

You wanted to claw, to fight, but your body betrayed you, locked in the spiraling grip of a full-blown attack. Your chest constricted, vision tunneling, as if the room itself was collapsing.

He froze—not from pity but confusion. The cadence of your words, the profanity, the sheer unfamiliarity of your panic—it was foreign to him.

A wild animal cornered. Something he hadn’t expected.

Then he sneered, stepping closer, his smell awful, his hand already reaching for the folds of your dress. “You’ll open your legs, or I’ll make you.”

Something in you snapped—you gagged, stomach twisting violently. Then, all of a sudden, you threw up on him. He cursed, pulling back in shock, anger flashing in his wine-soaked eyes. “Filthy bitch!” he roared, raising his hand to strike you.

You flinched, squeezing your eyes shut.

But he never actually struck you.

He was ripped away from you, slammed into the wall with a force that rattled the plaster. Another figure stood there, breathing hard, eyes blazing.

Lucius.

His hand clamped the drunk’s throat, shoving him back with a fighters precision, every movement honed for killing and in one swift motion he swiftly knocked him out. Then his gaze darted to you—wild, protective, desperate.

And despite the fury of the moment, a crooked grin tugged at his mouth.

“By the gods… flower,” he rasped, glancing at the man passed out on the ground. “Seems you’ve already ruined him before I could.”

At the sound of his voice, something inside you cracked open—relief rushing in like breath after drowning. “Lucius!” you gasped, barely thinking before throwing your arms around his neck.

He stiffened, holding his breath, stunned by the sudden warmth of you—then his heartbeat betrayed him.

For a moment, time itself froze for him.

When you pulled back, your eyes searched his face. “But—how did you even find me? How did you know I was—”

Lucius’s expression darkened. “That little bitch had you loaded into a carriage like cargo and then left you alone,” he said, his jaw tight. “I followed. But I couldn’t—”

“Lydia?” The name left your lips like a curse. And suddenly, everything made sense. “But why? Why would she—”

He cut you off, glancing toward the courtyard as distant voices grew louder. His hand found yours, firm and steady. “We’ll uncover her reasons later. Right now, we have to move. Come.” He pulled you into a narrow corridor, oil lamps painting the walls in molten gold.

You stopped short, eyes wide.

The murals that adorned the walls—crude, explicit, and strikingly vivid—featured naked bodies contorting in grotesque celebration. You raised your brows, remembering the remnants of wall paintings you’d seen in museums before, and muttered in awe, “So alive and bright…”

Lucius shot you a puzzled glance. "So this is what they meant..." You cleared your throat real quick, like you’d never seen something like this before. Sure, you had back in your day, but seeing them like this now... it’s just super awkward. “I mean—artistically speaking. Not... whatever this is.” Your cheeks are probably super red right now.

He let out a low, pained laugh. “Right. And you, my flower, are the one beautiful thing that doesn’t belong in this place.”

You felt a tightening in your chest.

“When they took you to that chamber, I was watching from the shadows,” Lucius said, his voice low, raw. “I could not intervene—not until I was certain it was safe. I waited.”

His gaze flicked toward the courtyard. “Then I saw that man…”

You swallowed hard, the image of that disgusting bastard flashing in your mind. Lucius’s hand found yours again, urgent and warm.

“Come. They must not see you.”

You yanked your hand free, making him stop.

“Maybe I should just tell them who my husband is—explain everything. They’d let me go if they knew. The wife of the General of Rome—”

Before the words left your lips, Lucius’s palm clamped over your mouth, his eyes fierce, urgent.

“If you truly love your husband,” he hissed, “you will not speak his name within these walls. Do you understand?”

You froze. His warning struck deep, echoing Marcus’s voice in your mind—Remember, you are my wife, my honor, my glory…

He was right.

If anyone discovered the general’s wife here, the scandal would destroy him.

Your fists tightened. “Damn you, Lydia,” you muttered under your breath. “What the fuck was she thinking?”

Lucius’s expression softened. “She loathes you—of that I am sure. And her brother most of all.” His voice dropped lower. “Come. If we reach that door, we can slip into the alley.”

You narrowed your eyes, teasing despite the danger. “You sound like someone who’s been here plenty of times.”

A faint smirk curved his mouth. “There is not a man in Rome who has not—or at least not thought of it.” His tone darkened, sly. “Including your husband.”

You smacked his arm. “Hey! He would never—Marcus isn’t like that, okay?” You tossed your hair back with a defiant little smile. “He loves me deeply.”

Lucius chuckled. “Right. If you say so.”

Before you could reply, a woman drifted out from a side room—half-naked, her hair tangled, skin glistening in the lamplight. Her eyes lit up at the sight of Lucius.

“Pulcher caesius meus, (My blue-eyed handsome one),” she purred, voice dripping honey. “Leaving so soon?”

Lucius cleared his throat, visibly uncomfortable. “Ah—sweet girl, you know I cannot stay. I only need one of those.” He gestured toward the masks hanging near the door—ornate tools of pleasure and anonymity.

Her gaze shifted to you, sharp and assessing as she reached for a mask. “So… they’re looking for this one, are they?”

“Just give me the mask,” Lucius snapped.

She rolled her eyes but obeyed. Lucius pressed the gilded mask into your hands.

“Put it on,” he ordered softly. “Some of the senators here were at the banquet. They must not recognize you.”

You traced the golden filigree, whispering, “Venus…” The serene face of the goddess gleamed back at you.

Lucius adjusted the mask carefully over your features, his voice a murmur. “Fitting. You bear her beauty.”

The girl scoffed. “Look at you—saving your lover. How noble. I wish a man would come for me like that.”

You opened your mouth to object, but Lucius only laughed—a dry, uneasy sound. “Apologies. My heart is already claimed, I’m afraid.”

The girl pouted and drifted away, muttering, “She’ll break your heart one day, and you’ll come crawling back. I’ll be waiting.”

You glared at him. “Geez. You didn’t have to crush her feelings.”

He arched a brow. “Is that truly our problem right now?”

You rolled your eyes. “You said you hid in the shadows. Shadows of her breasts, perhaps?”

Lucius’s jaw tensed. He caught your shoulders, voice low but sharp. “Would you leave him if I told you to? Acacius?”

Your breath caught—but you didn’t need to think. “No. Of course not.”

“Then don’t speak as if you have feelings for me,” he said quietly.

Before you could respond, a shout ripped through the air: “She’s gone! The girl’s escaped!”

“Lucius—run! They are coming!” the girl hissed, motioning wildly.

Lucius’s head turned toward the sound. “Time to flee.” He seized your hand again. “Run!”

You ran, the mask clouding your sight, lungs burning, sandals slapping stone. You burst through a side door into the cool Roman night.

“We can’t stop,” Lucius said between ragged breaths.

“I need to go home—the villa. Marcus will—”

“The villa?” he barked. “Are you mad? The guards will be everywhere. We lose them first.”

Behind you, torches flared, shouts echoing off marble and brick.

“This way!” someone bellowed.

Lucius’s grip tightened. “Run, flower, run!”

You stumbled, panting. “Ughhh! Why the fuck are they chasing us? What do they want from me?”

“Because right now,” he said grimly, “you’re worth more than any denarius, more than a senator’s ransom.”

“What the hell does that even mean?” you cried.

“Trust me,” he growled, steering you into a dark passage. “You don’t want to know.”

He led you through twisting alleys until you ducked into an underground passage. He tore a torch from the wall; its light flared against damp stone. The air reeked of mold and rot.

The poor huddled along the corridor, hollow-eyed, shadows of the living.

“This way,” Lucius whispered, guiding you down a narrow stairwell.

Your legs trembled. “Where the fuck are we going, Lucius?”

He paused, turning toward you. Gently, he lifted your mask, the flickering torchlight catching in his blue eyes.

“There is but one place left where you’ll be safe tonight,” he said softly. “My mother’s villa.”

“Lucilla?” you breathed.

He nodded. “The Praetorians will scour the city till dawn, but they’ll not cross her threshold.”

“But Marcus—” you began, hesitating.

“He will learn soon enough,” Lucius said, glancing past you—his eyes flicking toward a small figure watching from the shadows.

A child, then gone.

You turned to look, but the figure had vanished. You almost smiled. “His little security cameras.”

He frowned. “Cameras?”

“Uh—never mind. I’ll explain later.”

"You're speaking such strange words," he said with a smile.

You smiled back, the memory of your vision burned fresh in your mind—Lucilla’s face, the gleam of the Sun and Moon Dial in her hands.

You met his eyes. “You know what? You’re right. Let’s go.”

He studied you a moment, surprised by your sudden calm, then nodded once.

“Stay close,” he murmured. “And whatever happens—do not let go of my hand.”

You followed him through the narrow stone throat of the tunnel until, at last, Lucius pushed open a low iron gate and set the torch against the rough plaster. The flame spat; the light spilled across the courtyard in flashes of gold—pillars, a scatter of statues, dark gutters glistening faintly. He straightened and murmured, half to himself, half to you,

“We have arrived.”

You stayed behind him, watching the cut of his shoulders, the way he moved with the ease of a man who knew every shadow in his mother’s house. Your throat was tight with what you had to say. At the lip of the corridor, you asked quietly,

“You were hiding here all this time?”

He glanced back, the torchlight carving his jaw into planes of bronze.

“No. I was elsewhere. I’ve only been here two days. We didn’t enter through the garden because it’s better that the soldiers—or any of the slaves—don’t see you right now.”

“The soldiers shouldn’t see you either, right? Geta and Caracalla don’t know you’re in the city.”

Marcus hadn’t given you many details about these stuff; in fact, he rarely said much to you about politics or war. But Lucius—Lucius told you everything.

“Yes, but the soldiers won’t say a word,” he said, almost laughing, “because they fear your husband.”

As you caught up with him, you leaned forward to study his face.

“What does that mean?”

Lucius stopped and turned, clearly tired of your questions.

“It means your husband is doing his job very well as a general.”

You smiled faintly, though you knew he hadn’t meant it as praise. You stopped and caught his arm.

“I must tell you something. There’s an object—something that belongs to me. The sun and moon dial. I can’t tell you how I know, but I believe your mother has it. I need it, Lucius. That’s why I came. They were after us too, yes, but mostly... this.”

His brows drew together.

“You’re saying your object is in my mother’s possession?” He searched your face. “If that’s true, why would she take it? And what is its importance? You speak in riddles.”

You wanted to explain—oh, how you wanted to spill the impossible—but the words didn’t belong to this air.

“I can’t explain it now,” you said softly. “I’ll tell you later. For now—”

He gave a half-grin, half-grimace.

“First—before my mother wakes—I’ll take you to a room. Hidden. Out of sight.” His tone was practical, though a glimmer of mischief sparked in his eyes. “Not because she dislikes you—though she might—but because if she sees you by chance, she will… make a scene. Better you not meet her.”

You sighed. “Oh for fuck’s sake… I know she hates me Lucius.” Your voice brightened with a teasing edge. “Are you saving me because you care? Or because you don’t want her temper scorching your day?”

He smiled, but only briefly.

“Partly,” he admitted. “And partly because if this thing is truly yours, I must be sure. If it belongs to you, I’ll bring it to you. But I can’t simply take it from her hands on a whim. Proof will be needed—on both sides.”

“Come on, if you tell her, she’ll never let it go,” you said, your tone sharp. “I’m telling you, she really hates me.”

Lucius’s gaze sharpened; he stepped closer, eyes locking with yours.

“Can you prove it’s yours?”

“Yes. But I need my bag.”

“Your bag?”

To show you the photos on my phone—that was what you wanted to say.

“I must have dropped it when Lydia—”

You stopped.

The air bit at your lungs. Then—without warning—your world shifted.

The moon climbed fully from behind a veil of cloud and spilled over you in a perfect, terrible coin of light. It felt as though the light itself pressed against your skin. A pressure rose in your skull, a thin, metallic taste behind your teeth. You tasted salt—and heard the faint hum of voices not from this place.

The same voices from your dream.

You swayed.

Lucius’s hand was there like a rope. He caught you before you could fall, one arm beneath your knees, the other steady against your back.

“Rosa. You’re pale,” he said, voice taut. “Are you well?”

Your knees failed; you couldn’t stand. Something inside you unfurled—threads connecting to different places and times, the rhythm of the portal—and for a moment you were weightless, a leaf in a current. You were experiencing the images vividly, fully awake and aware, without the need for sleep or losing your consciousness.

Great.

You could only murmur, “I… I feel strange. The moon—”

He gathered you up without a second thought and carried you through the inner corridor. He moved quickly, the torchlight stretching his shadow long across the walls. At the door to his chambers, he paused, listening, then whispered, “My mother keeps no slaves wandering the halls after she’s retired. We won’t be seen.”

He sounded grateful for that small mercy.

He laid you on the bed as if you were something precious and fragile. The mattress smelled faintly of oil and lavender; the air was cool.

He sat at the edge of the bed and, as though by instinct, let his fingers trace the line of your cheek.

“What is it?” he asked, quietly watching.

You touched your temple. “I don’t know. I just feel… tired.” The words came thin, ragged. Your limbs felt heavy, your voice distant.

“Lie still,” he said—soft, insistent. You wanted to protest, to tell him you needed the dial, now—but your body refused to move.

He rose, whispering once more, “Rest. I will return shortly.”

Outside, the villa loomed pale beneath the full moon, its marble columns gleaming like bones. The sound of hooves shattered the night’s stillness as Marcus and Julius dismounted in the outer court.

Marcus’s sandals struck the stones hard. His breath came ragged—a mix of fear, fury, and exhaustion.

“Open the gates!” he barked, his voice echoing off the marble walls. Two startled slaves scrambled to pull the bronze doors wide.

The moment he stepped inside, the cool air of the atrium wrapped around him. Moonlight poured through the open roof, spilling across the impluvium where the water mirrored the night sky.

Marcus stopped beneath it, heart pounding against his ribs, head tilted up—the pale glow cut across his face, sharpening the lines of his jaw, igniting the storm in his eyes.

From a nearby corridor, Lucius heard the commotion. He stopped, muttered a single curse under his breath when he noticed Marcus. “Damn it.” Behind him stood Lucilla, her robes hastily gathered, eyes wide as lanterns.

“My son?” she gasped.

Lucius pressed his hands to his hips, trying to find his words. “Mother... I was coming to inform you—”

Marcus looked up—and roared. “Lucius!” The name cracked through the air.

Lucilla’s head snapped toward him, confusion and alarm twisting her features. “Why is Acacius here?” she demanded.

Lucius set his jaw. “Because of me. Stay upstairs, Mother. Do not come down.” His tone carried the weight of command.

“Lucius, what is happening?” she asked, voice trembling as she gazed down at the two brothers from the balustrade.

Marcus’s glare sliced toward her—sharp, lethal. Julius bowed quickly. “Forgive us, my lady—” he began, but the words died under Marcus’s eyes.

Then he saw Lucius descending the stairs. His pulse quickened, rage rising as his gaze darted around, desperate to find you.

Lucilla’s voice cut through the air, cool and measured. “I wonder why Rome’s great general darkens my doorstep at midnight?”

He didn’t even glance at her. “Where is she?” he demanded, voice raw and taut. “Where is my wife? Is she— is she well?”

“Your wife,” Lucius said as he descended, each step deliberate, calm—too calm. “She’s safe. Resting now.”

Lucilla froze, disbelief flickering across her face.

Marcus’s relief curdled into fury. “Tell me she’s unharmed,” he said sharply. His voice cracked—not from weakness, but from barely restrained panic. “Say she’s alright.”

Lucius tilted his head slightly. “So you do have your worries,” he murmured with a hint of irony. “It’s amusing, really. You can bring the legions of Rome to their knees, yet you can’t stop your treacherous sister from toying with your wife like a mere pawn.” His tone shifted, the calmness replaced with a razor-sharp edge. “No honorable man would treat his enemy the way she’s treated your wife. You protect the Empire so fiercely, Acacius. It’s a pity you can’t protect your own wife.”

Julius stiffened. “Lucius—”

But Marcus had already moved.

His hand shot out, seizing Lucius by the throat of his tunic, dragging him close enough that their foreheads nearly met. The motion was so sudden it made the torches on the walls flicker.

“You’d better watch your tongue when you speak of my wife,” Marcus hissed, his voice raw.

Lucius only smiled faintly, infuriatingly composed. “While I was rescuing her, I also safeguarded your honor and protected your name. You should be thanking me, not threatening me.”

Marcus’s jaw flexed. He spoke through gritted teeth, each word trembling with contained violence. “Thank you… but do not mistake my gratitude for weakness or blindness. You think you care for her more than I do? You think you know her better than I ever could?”

“Acacius! That is enough!” Lucilla shouted, but she hesitated to step in, her grip tightening on the balustrade.

“Release him, brother,” Julius hissed, gripping Marcus’s arm.

In Lucius’s chamber, though the voices sounded muffled through the walls, you knew that voice—it was Marcus.

You pushed yourself out of bed and stumbled toward the sound.

Your bare foot struck the cold flagstones of the balcony, and Lucilla’s head turned sharply. Her face froze as if she’d seen a ghost.

“You,” she gasped, grabbing your arm tightly. “So it wasn’t enough to bewitch Acacius—you had to ensnare my son as well?”

You brushed her off, shoving her arm away in frustration.

You glanced down and saw Marcus gripping Lucius by the collar, your breath catching in your throat. His fingers remained tightly fastened to the front of Lucius’s tunic when your voice broke the tense silence—

“Marcus!”

It wasn’t a shout, more like the peal of a bell, but it cut through the tension like a blade.

He turned.

For a heartbeat, the time stopped for him.

You stood in the archway, half in shadow, half bathed in moonlight—your stola torn, dust and dirt smudged across your skin, your hair tangled from running. You looked wild and breathless, yet you were safe at last... undeniably beautiful in the most human way.

“Rosa,” he breathed—your name barely a sound, more prayer than word.

He released Lucius instantly.

For a moment, his hands just hovered uselessly at his sides as his gaze examined you—your trembling hands, the dirt along your arms, the small scrape on your cheek. His chest rose sharply, as though he’d been holding his breath for hours.

You saw the anger drain from him, only to be replaced by something heavier—guilt, relief, ease.

“I’m okay,” you replied quickly, your breath catching. “Don’t worry, Marcus. I’m fine. Lucius—he helped me.”

His eyes darted towards Lucius. The name you spoke lingered in the air like a spark falling on dry leaves.

'Lucius helped me', struck him like a sword through the heart.

Lucius met your gaze, “I tried to explain that to him.”

Turning to him, you added, “Once again, thank you for everything.”

Lucius smiled warmly. “Anytime, flower.”

Marcus’ jaw clenched.

He reached for you, his hand closing firmly around your wrist. “We’re leaving,” he said, pulling you firmly, voice low but absolute.

The command in his tone left no space for protest.

You stumbled after him, half dragged through the corridor. “Marcus, wait—” you gasped, turning to glance back toward Lucius.

Lucius remained still.

Your eyes met one last time. His lips curved, barely—a faint, tired smile.

Then Marcus pulled harder.

“Marcus, please! Just listen—” you said, struggling against his grip. The night air struck your face as you reached the outer court. “You’re hurting me dammit!”

He didn’t stop.

“Marcus, listen to me!” you yelled, jerking your arm free. He turned, breath ragged, eyes wild with anger and exhaustion.

“What is it?”

“The sun and moon dial—it’s here. Lucilla has it. I need it. If we leave now—”

“Now is not the time, Rosa,” he snapped, his voice sharp enough to cut. He turned away, heading for his horse.

“Did you even hear me?” you wailed, following him, your voice shaking with more than just anger. “Marcus, the dial—we need it.”

Julius trails behind you, hesitating to step in or hold back.

Marcus exhaled hard through his teeth, forcing control. “It’s been a long night,” he said, quieter but no softer. “We’ll talk about this later. Not here. Not now.”

His glance flicked to the slaves who pretended not to watch.

Something flickered in you—hurt, disbelief. You didn’t understand the coldness in his eyes.

He mounted his horse in one swift motion. “Julius,” he ordered, “help her.”

You frowned.

Anger tightened your chest.

You turned toward the villa again, toward the balcony where Lucilla’s shadow still lingered. Everything inside you screamed not to leave—not yet.

Marcus extended his hand down to you. “Rosa,” he said, his voice steady but low. “Come.”

You looked at his hand—strong, scarred, familiar, warm. The hand that had always felt like home.

But now it felt like a choice.

The moon is full. The path is opening. You do not belong in this time, the voice from your dream whispered, Return… or perish.

You wanted to tell him.

You wanted to make him understand.

But love—stubborn, divine, eternal, foolish love—won again.

So instead of arguing, you just went with it, following your heart.

Your fingers trembled as they found his.

With Julius’ help, he pulled you up behind him, strong and sure, and the horse surged forward into the night. The gates opened wide, the villa shrinking behind you—its marble walls cold and silver beneath the moon, as if they, too, were watching you go.

Leaving the dial—the object that was your only chance to return—behind...

The road stretched endless beneath the moonlight, the rhythm of the horse’s gallop echoing through your bones.

You clung to Marcus’s back, your cheek brushing the rough fabric of his cloak. His silence was a wall—thick, impenetrable—but you could feel the storm beneath it, the fury not aimed at you, but at the world that had dared to touch you, harm you.

You wanted to assure him again that you were okay, to share your dreams or visions, and the strange voices you had heard.

Yet, every word felt insignificant against the heaviness of his silence.

Besides, you were already feeling pretty worn out anyway.

Your bare feet throbbed from sprinting along the streets; you'd shed your sandals long ago. Each jolt from the horse sent a dull ache up your legs, but you clung on tighter—not from fear of falling, but because you wanted to catch his reaction.

And you were right.

He glanced back at you for just a moment before turning away, his expression stern.

You bit your lip in frustration.

When the villa’s tall gates came into view, torches flickering along the walls, Marcus slowed the horse. You could see the tension in the set of his shoulders, the exhaustion beneath his armor.

The horse stopped, the courtyard bathed in pale gold firelight. Slaves rushed forward. Before you could even think to move, Marcus dismounted, turned, and reached for you—but not your hand.

He lifted you into his arms instead, his grip firm, protective, almost fierce.

“Marcus, I can walk,” you said, your voice hoarse from the night air.

He didn’t even look at you as he started toward the gate.

“No one said you couldn’t,” he replied, briefly eyeing your bare feet.

“So you’re in the mood for jokes, huh?” you teased, hoping to get a smile out of him, but you didn’t succeed.

Julius chuckled softly, breaking the tension for a moment, but then his mood shifted. He cleared his throat after catching Marcus giving him a side-eye.

The doors swung open, allowing the cool air of the atrium to envelop you. You took in the faint scent of oil lamps mingling with the sound of water from the fountain, along with a hint of marble dust in the air. Moonlight streamed through the compluvium, shimmering on the water's surface as Marcus stepped over the threshold, still cradling you in his arms.

Balbina appeared from one of the side corridors, her hair covered, a shawl hastily drawn around her shoulders. Her eyes widened the moment she saw you.

“My son,” she breathed, one hand pressing to her chest. “Thank the gods… you found her.”

Found her.

The words struck you oddly—as if you’d been some misplaced object finally retrieved.

Marcus didn’t answer.

His expression didn’t soften. He just gave a curt nod, his jaw still tight. Then, without looking at you, he turned halfway toward Julius.

“Double the guards at the gate,” he ordered, voice sharp. “No one enters or leaves without my command.”

Julius hesitated, his eyes flicking between you and Marcus, then nodded once and left with brisk steps.

Marcus turned back to Balbina, his tone leaving no room for question.

"From this moment forward, Lydia won’t step outside. Until the wedding takes place, she will see no one. Do you understand?”

Balbina blinked, startled, but bowed her head. “As you wish, my son.”

He shifted you slightly in his arms, as if only then realizing he still held you. For a moment, his eyes finally met yours.

You opened your mouth to speak—to tell him something, anything—but his gaze silenced you.

It wasn’t harsh.

Yet it wasn’t comforting either.

By the time Marcus had you hoisted up the marble stairs, you were done with putting up a fight. The silence and his icy attitude were really starting to get on your nerves.

Fuck being a good girl.

“Lemme down now,” you mumbled. He didn’t budge. He just kept climbing. Once you got halfway down the hallway, a different kind of urgency hit you. “Uh—Marcus?”

He didn’t slow. “Rosa, be patient; we are almost-”

“I gotta pee.”

That stopped him.

Marcus blinked, the frown between his brows deepening like he hadn’t quite processed the words.

“…Now?”

“Yes, now. It’s called a bladder. People have them.”

He hesitated for the briefest moment, then gently set you down.

You didn’t even look back as you hurried down the hall.

The latrina was cool and echoing, the faint sound of water dripping from the marble basin. By the time you emerged, your hair was a mess again, your stola clinging awkwardly, and your dignity—well, somewhere halfway down the drain.

Marcus was waiting exactly where you’d left him, arms folded, posture rigid. The soldier in him apparently incapable of doing anything but standing guard.

“For fucks’ sake,” you muttered, “were you here the whole time?”

“Of course,” he said simply, and before you could roll your eyes, his hand closed around your wrist again, guiding—dragging—you toward the chamber.

“Seriously?” you snapped as your steps stumbled to match his longer stride. “You can let go now! I’m not gonna vaporize or get abducted by aliens or whatever. You keep yanking me around like—like a damn suitcase!”

He didn’t respond; he just kept pulling you toward his chamber.

You tugged harder, exasperated. “Great, perfect, now my arm’s officially two inches longer."

He stopped.

The chamber went silent except for your ragged breath. His hand loosened. For a heartbeat, you thought he’d finally gotten angry enough to snap back.

Instead, he turned toward you—then pulled you against him, sudden and tight.

You went stiff. “Marcus,” you mumbled, your voice kind of buried against him. “So, just so you know, I’m basically a mess right now. I smell like sweat, vomit, and… probably horse, too.”

He didn’t answer.

His hands came up, cupping your face. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, smearing a faint line of dirt you hadn’t noticed. He looked at you as if trying to memorize your entire existence, eyes darker than the night outside.

You saw the crack in his composure—the guilt hiding behind the steel.

Your throat tightened.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly. “I should’ve never trusted Lydia. I didn’t think she’d go this far.”

He exhaled slowly, his forehead nearly touching yours. “When I realized what could happen—if anything were to happen...” he took a long, shaky breath. "...all I could think of was killing her. If she weren’t my blood, she’d already be dead.”

You stared at him, heart stumbling.

You knew he meant it.

You didn’t doubt it.

Not for a second.

His voice wasn’t angry now. It was too calm, uncomfortably calm when he talked about killing her. That’s freaked you out.

You swallowed hard. “Okay—first of all, hi, I’m alive. Not dead, not—” you hesitated, the words catching in your throat, “—not hurt or harmed or anything. Secondly, can we not add sororicide to your list of heroic deeds tonight? I’m fine, really. Nobody needs to die, please.”

He didn’t smile. Not yet.

And then your stomach lurched.

“Oh shit—Marcus—sorry, I’m gonna—”

You bolted back toward the latrina. His voice followed instantly, alarmed. “Rosa? What is it? Did they give you something?”

You bent over the marble basin, gagging, and managed between breaths, “No. Just… terrible smell, maybe.”

When you finally stood and wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, Marcus was there again, eyes wide with concern, hand half-extended like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch you.

You gave a weak laugh, pulling your stola straighter. “Well, that was glamorous. Think I might’ve scared your ancestors out of their urns.”

He blinked. “You are ill.”

“I’m not ill, I’m disgusting. There’s a difference.” You sniffed your arm, grimaced. “Ugh. See? That’s… that’s battlefield level of gross. Would it be weird if I asked the slaves to prep the balneum at this hour? Or maybe just splash some water on me, please?”

For the first time all night, his mouth twitched. Then, slowly, a smile broke through the hard line of his jaw.

“No,” he said softly. “It would not be strange at all. It would be very wise.”

He turned, calling down the corridor for slaves.

And as he did, you caught it: the smallest, gentlest laugh under his breath.

You half-woke to the sound of birds outside—muted, far away, as if they were still deciding whether morning was worth the effort. Somewhere beyond the courtyard, water dripped into the impluvium, a steady rhythm against the hush.

Your body ached like stone warmed by fire. When you tried to move, a faint soreness reminded you of everything—the chase through the streets, the shouting, Lucius' warm smile, Lucilla’s glare. And Marcus—the way he lifted you, how he enveloped you in his embrace, and how his anger melted away into relief the moment he looked into your eyes.

Then at the balneum, its steam curling against the mosaic walls; Marcus kneeling beside the bath, he poured warm water over your shoulders, the scent of oil on your skin. Then he slipped in, joining you for a relaxing soak. You remembered how he dried your hair with a piece of cloth and dressed you in fresh linen, his gentle touch contrasting with the ruggedness of his scars.

Later, the two of you lay together in the bed, his arm wrapped around you, your head resting beneath his chin. You drifted off to sleep, comforted by the rhythmic sound of his heartbeat and the warmth of his body beside you.

Now, the bed was... cold.

You turned over, still half-asleep, reaching for him—only to find the sheets empty.

“Marcus?”

Your voice cracked, too loud in the stillness.

The birds stopped. The water stopped.

The whole world seemed to blink.

You sat up sharply.

And the light—the soft, gold morning light—collapsed into night.

The air shifted, cool and electric.

Your room wasn’t Marcus' villa anymore. The plaster walls had flattened into modern white. The scent of oil lamps was gone—replaced by laundry detergent and your phone charger’s faint buzz.

You were in your bed.

Your bed in 2025.

You threw the covers off, heart hammering. “Marcus?”

No answer.

You dashed through the apartment, your bare feet slapping against the floor, the sound feeling too vivid and unsettling. Yanking the door open, you stumbled out onto the street—surrounded by cars, traffic lights, and the buzz of a thousand strangers in trendy outfits staring at you as if you were out of your mind.

“Marcus!” you screamed into the noise. “Marcus!”

No one turned.

You spun, dizzy, every light flickering—then darkness again.

You gasped awake.

The same bed.

But this time—his warmth was real. Marcus was there, lying beside you, half-asleep, his hair tousled, eyes heavy with concern the moment they opened.

“Rosa,” he murmured, voice low and rough from sleep. “Are you well?”

You didn’t answer.

To hell with these strange dreams

You just turned toward him, pressing yourself into his chest. The solid feel of him, the heartbeat, the weight of his arm circling you—it was the only thing keeping you from shaking apart.

He didn’t ask again.

His fingers slid into your hair, patient, rhythmic, tracing calm through your pulse. You breathed against his chest until your racing heart began to slow.

“I think I’m losing it,” you whispered against his skin. “These dreams—Marcus, they don’t feel like just dreams anymore. They’re more like… memories or something. I’m not sure. Ever since we got back, everything seems weird. Like the world's not in sync.”

His lips brushed the top of your head. “The dial again,” he said quietly. “Did you see it?”

You nodded slightly against his chest. “Yeah… That too. It’s with her. I’m pretty sure it’s in Lucilla’s hands. I don’t know what she plans to do with it or how she even got it, but it’s mine. Not hers. It has to be.”

Your fingertip traced the edge of his tunic, drawing idle patterns as you spoke. “We came back before we could take it from her,” you murmured.

Marcus exhaled slowly, understood what you were implying. “Lucilla would never admit to something like that,” he said, his voice measured. “Confronting her too soon would only make things worse.”

His fingers combed absently through your hair, gentle but restless. “That’s why I said nothing last night,” he went on. “To question her would’ve been the same as calling her a thief. Better to wait—until there’s no doubt left.”

Your finger moved slowly, nervous. “Lucius… said he might be able to help. If I can prove it’s mine.”

Marcus stilled.

His hand froze in your hair, the warmth in his body suddenly gone rigid. “Lucius?” he said quietly, the name cutting through the stillness. His gaze dropped to meet yours, sharp as a blade. “You told him?”

Swallowing, “Not everything,” you said quickly. “I just thought—he could help. He knows how Lucilla moves things around, he’s been in her chambers before. I thought—”

Marcus’s jaw clenched. “And you placed your trust in him to handle that?” His tone wasn’t loud, but it was sharper than any shout could’ve been. He stood on the bed and in second he was on the top of you, the movement startling enough to make you flinch. “Tell me, Rosa,” he said, piercing your eyes with his look. “What led you to trust him?” Before you could answer, he leaned forward—so suddenly the mattress dipped beneath his weight. His tunic fell loose between you, the fabric brushing your cheek, carrying his scent—warm, subtly lavender fragrance from last night's bath—along with something uniquely his.

Your breath caught as he hovered above you, his brown eyes locked onto yours.

You blinked, a warm tingle spreading down your spine. “I— I don’t get..."

Marcus leaned closer, his gaze never leaving yours. “Tell me. Why would he help you?” The words came quiet, steady, each one landing like a heartbeat.

You could feel your pulse against your throat. There was something burning behind his eyes—something that made lying impossible. You opened your mouth, but the words tangled somewhere between truth and defense.

“Because he…” You hesitated, the rest slipping away.

Marcus tilted his head, his hand coming up to gently grasp your chin—firm, not rough, guiding your eyes back to his. “Yes?” he pressed, voice soft but deliberate. “He what?”

You froze, feeling the air tighten between you. His nearness made it hard to think, every nerve alive under the weight of his gaze.

Finally, the words escaped you in a breath. “Because... he’s... he's a good man.”

Marcus’s thumb brushed along your bottom lip, and a faint, humorless smile ghosted across his lips. “That’s not the answer I was expecting,” he murmured, voice almost tender but edged with something else.

Your pulse skipped.

He drew back just enough to look at you fully, the tension still hanging heavy in the air. You wanted to say more—anything—but he spoke first, quiet, certain: “Maybe you already know why he’d do that for you.”

Your chest tightened.

You didn't say anything—because you kinda knew he had a point. But you really didn't like how he tried to make you say it.

He smiled faintly at the look in your eyes, the kind of smile that came with quiet possession.

His lips hovered tantalizingly close to yours, a mere breath apart. He articulated each word as tracing a path down to your collarbone. “Because I would. Do. Anything. For you. I’d give everything I have—just to hear you whisper my name from those beautiful lips of yours,” he said, his hand shifting to spread your knees, leaving you gasping in surprise.

In response, your fingers tightened in the folds of his tunic, drawing him nearer almost without realizing it. “Marcus…” you whispered, but it came out like a plea.

“Hmm?” he murmured against your skin, his voice low and teasing, carrying an edge of danger, much like the way his fingers traced along your thighs beneath the thin fabric of your tunic.

His lips ghosted just below your ear, his breath hot. “Maybe,” he whispered, “you trust him because you already know he’s in love with you.”

You shook your head, trying to steady your voice. “You think I’d use that?" You wanted to sound angry, but his thick fingers slipped over your wet folds now.

You moaned softly.

Marcus’s mouth curved, his tone softer now. "You don't need to, my love."

“Oh c’mon,” you muttered, trying to deflect, your voice a little too thin, a little too breathless. “Are we really talking about him here—in bed?”

“Then tell me,” he cooed, brushing his lips against your temple. “What should we talk about instead, hmm?”

You tilted your head, feigning thought. It was so fucking hard to focus, get angry and pick a fight with that man when his muscled, thick body was all over you, making you feel so small and vulnerable you could only beg for him to take you. “Hmm… how about you stop talking and just fuck me instead?"

He always laughed at your foul language, but this time he didn't.

Instead, he responded with a passionate kiss and at the same time pushed one of his fingers inside, you gasped while grabbing onto his shoulders.

What was the subject again?

What is your argument now?

It’s all gone now, anyway.

Keep kissing you, he slipped a second finger inside you, stretching your walls so good you weren't able to breathe properly.

As you let out a moan, an unusual sensation washed over you—almost like the urge to pee, but it wasn’t quite there. In that moment, though, you didn’t care; all you wanted was Marcus.

Him inside you as soon as possible, his cock taking the place of his fingers.

Marcus yanked off his tunic with determination, and in a moment of sheer instinct, you reached out to him, your fingers brushing against his sun-kissed skin and feeling the firmness of his muscles beneath your touch. Then he let his glorious cock out, dripping precome and standing fully erect in front of you.

You let out a sigh.

Even though you've seen so many times, you couldn't help but bite your lip and stare as your cunt throbbed just at the thought of having him inside you. Before his cock made contact, you slipped one hand between your bodies and touched your own womanhood.

You were soaking wet.

But there was a fire burning within you.

Yeah, it was from desire, but there was something else in the mix, something odd.

Strange.

Well, fuck it.

You had to brush off that weird feeling for now.

Nothing was going to ruin this moment.

Marcus grasped your fingers, glistening with your sweet essence, and drew them into his mouth, savoring every drop. A playful laugh escaped your lips, and he responded with a dark smirk. Then, leaning in closer, he kissed you as if it were the last chance he’d ever have. His mouth was a delightful blend of sweetness, tinged with the flavor of you.

"Hmm, lovely," he murmured against your skin.

"Totally agree," you grinned.

He wasted no time in grabbing your neck gently, there fucking butterflies in your stomach, his large hand sliding down to your breasts, caressing them as he staring into your eyes with lust and hanger. You felt your walls clenching, you wanted him so fucking bad it physically hurt.

The excitement of thinking about him fucking you next making your nipples get hard.

"Marcus, please..." you breathed, a mix of a moan and a plea in your voice.

Marcus smirked, "Impatient as ever.”

With that he pushed his cock inside you all at once, you got caught by surprise, the burning sensation of being stretched making your insides throb and clench against his length, fingers gripping at his shoulder, legs wrapping around his waist for dear life.

"Oh! Fuck—" You rolled your eyes.

"That's how my wife prefers? Hard, eager, and a bit rough, hm?"

You were so wet and ready for him it was easy for his cock to slip almost all out and then back in, his balls hitting against you, tip reaching deep inside you, his thickness stretching you out so good you saw stars.

"Fuck! Yes! Marcus— I love your cock. Please."

At this point, you were just saying anything — it felt so good to get him inside you, the aching every time his tip reached deep down your core making you whimper and beg for more, body shaking from his brutal thrusting.

"I love how you make me impatient too," he growled.

Next, he grabbed your ankles and folded your legs, fucking you so hard and fast you became nothing but a pile of moans under his thick cock, your over sensitive walls clenching around him. It felt so sloppy and messy, and so fucking rough that you felt close to coming with just a few pounds, and that's exactly what happened seconds later. Your tightened around him, feeling the slight pain of getting fucked hard hit you just right, hot liquid slipping down from you as Marcus let out all his ravenous need -and a little jealousy- through his heavy pounds, his forehead and neck glistening with sweat.

In a state of pure ecstasy, as if your brain was melting, you let out a sound that resembled crying, your legs trembling uncontrollably.

“Rosa, are you well?" He asked in between thrusts.

His sudden halt made you whimper for more, don't caring at all if you had already reached your limit. "K-keep going, please," You moaned, digging your nails into his back, being shredded under him. You felt so fucking stupid with how needy you sounded, but didn’t care at all, and when you went in for a kiss, he met you with a heated response. He pulled back from the kiss with a wet sound and wrapped his arms around your waist, his big hands gripping your sides.

And suddenly he turned you over, grabbing your hips to put your ass up, your hair falling over shoulders like a curtain.

His hand smoothed over you bottom and up your spine as you shiver against his touch.

With a snarl Marcus, used his knee to spread your legs further, causing you fell to your forearms, your face squished against the mattress.

Your wet cunt so prettily on display for him,

His lips formed an 'o' shape, his heart was beating wildly. His thick fingers gripped your hip hard, "Look at how you're dripping for me. So beautiful."

With a deep breath, Marcus thrusted fully into your dripping wet sex. You groan out together in bliss, lost to your pleasure.

"By all the Gods, deliciae meae… you feel divine. Surely, you were made for me," he growls out breathlessly as his cock moved even further inside you, causing you to clench your muscles around him hard.

"Ah! Fuck— Marcus!" You almost yelled, fingers gripping the bed sheets.

You felt so full.

You couldn't help but be surprised by how great Marcus made you feel every time he fucked you. It was honestly more than you ever expected. With each thrust, you were whining and making sweet noises, and he just responds with this deep, masculine growl.

So fucking amazing.

"Let me hear you, my love," he pulled you against his chest as you cried out for him. The angle drove him deeper inside you making you feel dizzy with every thrust. He wrapped his arm across your chest so he can thrust harder, faster, again and again.

"Come for me, one more time, I know you can," he groaned deeply in your ear, cupping your breasts, kneading them as he bit down on your earlobe, so breathless that he could hardly think straight.

He was swept away in a wave of sheer ecstasy, intoxicated by your scent and your soft meows.

"Marcus! Oh god!" You screamed loudly, another orgasm exploding from deep inside of you as your cunt clamped down on his cock. You could feel him moving violently in and out of you as your inner muscles continued to cling to him uncontrollably, your whole body shaking from your climax.

Marcus groaned your name as his own orgasm followed, his come spurting deep inside of you, his head on your shoulder as he sucked and bit it hungrily.

For a moment, he thought he had reached Elysium itself.

You were both finally satisfied, truly feeling alive. He planted soft kisses along your neck, whispering sweet nothings. Then he pulled out of you, his seed dripping down your thighs as he kissed your soft lips.

He knew he could never get enough of you and softly whispered that in your ear.

You smiled lazily in response, your hips and legs were so sore that you surrendered to the bed, flopping down on your stomach.

He followed suit, collapsing beside you on the mattress.

Marcus wrapped his arm around you, pulling you close as you caught your breath. His gentle hand brushed your hair away from your face, and you leaned against his chest, eyes closed.

But then you noticed your breathing wasn’t settling like it should. It felt as if anxiety had gripped you.

Your heart raced, pounding in your throat.

Marcus noticed immediately — the shallow breaths, the tremor beneath his palm. He placed his hand over your chest, his brows knitting together.

“My love? Your heart beats like a frightened bird.”

You swallowed hard, trying to form words. “I—”

His voice softened, but his eyes searched yours with concern. “Did I go too far? Did I hurt you?”

You shook your head, too weak to open your eyes. “No. I just feel… weird. I mean, it was amazing, but I don’t know. I’m just… tired.”

It was truly strange — your whole body felt as if it were shifting, changing. Maybe it was because you hadn’t gone through the portal. Those damn voices from your dream still echoed in your skull, haunting.

You should have told him.

You couldn’t keep it hidden anymore.

“Marcus,” you whispered.

“Yes, mea vita?”

Before you could answer, a deep, unmistakable growl filled the air.

Yours.

Silence followed — long enough for heat to rush to your cheeks.

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “Okay, that—was not romantic.”

Marcus blinked, then his expression melted into pure amusement. The sound of his laugh — low, rich, entirely unguarded — warmed the air. “You’re hungry,” he said simply, still smiling.

You peeked through your fingers. “Starving, actually,” you admitted, pressing your lips together as another rumble betrayed you.

He leaned forward, pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, and got out of bed. “I’ll have food brought here.”

Your brows rose. “Here? Like—here here?”

Marcus located his tunic and put it on, turning slightly as he said, “I don’t want to see any of them today.” His voice had that commanding weight again — the one that made every slave within earshot hold their breath as he instructed them to bring food for the two of you.

You tilted your head, narrowing your eyes. “Wait, today? You say that like you’re planning to stay here. All day.”

He turned fully to face you then, and that small, knowing smile curved his lips.

“Because I am,” he said simply. “Julius can tend to the legion for one day. Today, I belong to you.”

Your mouth fell open. “Oh.”

He was already walking back toward the bed, settling beside you again. “I even made a plan,” he said, the mattress dipping under his weight. “I’m taking you somewhere.”

Your face lit up, pure delight replacing disbelief. “We’re going out? Like—a date?”

Marcus chuckled, brushing a stray lock of hair from your face with his knuckle.

“If that’s what you want to call it,” he said. “Yes. A date.”

You laughed and threw your arms around his neck. “Really?”

He nodded, smiling into your hair. “Really.”

After breakfast, Marcus had insisted you rest a little longer—just until you stopped looking so pale. While you were digging into the food on the tray that was brought to your room, he sat next to you, tucked your hair behind your ear, and couldn’t help but laugh a little at how you looked as he fed you some fruit.

When you were done, he left you in the hands of the slave girls. They worked quickly, dressing you in a light linen stola and fastening the folds with delicate pins. One of them braided your hair while another adjusted the sandals around your ankles. Their voices were soft and respectful, and they seemed genuinely happy to serve you, their lady. Yet, you couldn’t shake the feeling of being a stranger in their world, and a pang of pity washed over you for their situation. Still, you had to push those feminist thoughts aside, convinced that you had no right to change anything in this world.

Marcus waited below.

When you descended the marble stairs into the atrium, the light was golden, pooling around the mosaics. Balbina lounged on a lectus nearby, sharp-eyed as ever. You inclined your head politely but said nothing. Marcus gave her only a courteous nod. Then, without a word, he extended his arm to you, and you took it.

Together, you crossed the peristyle and stepped out into the sun.

The path to the stables was alive with sound—hooves striking stone, the low snort of horses, the squeak of leather harnesses. The air smelled of fresh hay, oil, and sun-warmed leather, the kind of scent that clings to the skin. You had no desire to venture closer, already feeling dizzy from the overwhelming smells. So, the two of you stayed outside, patiently waiting for the slaves to bring Marcus' horse to you.

Suddenly, a young boy, no older than 11 or 12, darted between the horses with remarkable speed. Marcus’s lips curved faintly.

“Ah, my little sprinter,” he said.

The boy grinned and bowed quickly. “General, sir!” he panted, his eyes sparkling with curiosity as they shifted to you. You tilted your head in question. “Sprinter?” Marcus turned to you, his tone teasing. “Rosa, meet Velox. He climbs faster than a cat and sharper than any legionnaire’s blade. I’ll take him to the legions when he completes his training. For now, he serves as a scout.”

The boy’s smile grew wider, excitement bubbling over as he attempted to stand at attention. “Yes, sir! I’ll be a legionary, sir! Oh—and Lady Acacius’s bag, sir. I found it!”

Your heart leapt. “My bag!”

He held it out with both hands. You rushed forward and snatched it like it was treasure, clutching it against your chest. Relief and joy flooded you all at once. Everything that still tied you to your world—your phone, your notebook, the few little things you’d brought—was there.

Marcus chuckled, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “Well done, boy. But tell me—how did you find it?”

Velox hesitated, shuffling his feet. “Some little brats had it, sir. They dropped it when something fell out. Something strange… sticky and stretching like...” He gestured vaguely with both hands.

You gasped, then laughed. “Oh—my gum pack? They ate it, didn’t they?”

The boy nodded miserably. “Yes, my lady.”

Marcus’s composure cracked just enough for a smile. “It’s all right,” he said, taking a denarius from his pouch and pressing it into the boy’s hand. “For your service.”

The boy’s eyes went wide. “Thank you, sir! Thank you, my lady!” Then he turned and sprinted away—so fast you barely saw him go.

You blinked. “He’s really fast.”

Marcus smirked. “Hence the name.”

You still clutched your bag, beaming. Marcus extended his hand toward you. “Come, love. Let us go.”

You took his hand, stepping closer, but Marcus halted. “No, the bag cannot ride with you atop the horse. It is not meant for such a journey. I will have it sent to your chamber by the slaves.”

“No!” you protested, arms wrapped tightly around your belongings.

Marcus’s voice softened, “You won’t need it or what's inside.”

You sighed, slipping your hand into the bag. “Fine. But I’m taking my phone.”

He raised a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Your phone? Do you expect messages while mounted upon my horse? Or are you planning to check that thing you call... GPS?”

You chuckled at his pronunciation. “I just want to take some pictures.”

The slave holding the reins blinked, clearly confused. Marcus’s patience thinned visibly before he exhaled, amused despite himself. With one smooth motion, he plucked the strange device from your hand and tucked it into his saddlebag.

“Now—satisfied?”

You grinned, a little triumphant. “Yes.”

Then you leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his lips before he could react.

Marcus froze, then cleared his throat and gestured sharply to another slave. “Take this to my chamber. Handle it carefully.”

Mounting his horse, he turned back to you, offering his hand. You placed yours in his, and with one tug, he pulled you up behind him. You slid your arms around his waist, your fingers brushing against the cool leather of his armor.

“You ready?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder.

You smiled, leaning in close. “Yeah, Mr. General. Let’s go.”

Marcus’s mouth curved into a wicked grin, “Then hold on tight, Lady Acacius.”

With that tightened his grip on the reins, a mischievous glint flashing in his eyes before he pulled sharply.

The horse reared, hooves striking the air, and then surged forward with a wild, powerful leap.

Your breath caught — a half scream, half laugh — as you clung to him for dear life. “Marcus!” you gasped, breathless, swatting at his shoulder in mock outrage.

He only laughed — that low, boyish sound — and spurred the horse faster.

The world blurred around you; wind rushed past in a rush of sound and light.

Your hair streamed behind you, tangling in the breeze, while his dark curls whipped across his forehead — wild and free, catching the sunlight like bronze threads.

Without thinking, you pressed your cheek against his back. His warmth seeped through his armor, his heartbeat steady beneath your palm.

For a moment, everything else fell away…

Only the sound of his laughter, the wind, and the perfect sync of your heartbeats remained.

******

Marcus tied his horse to a cypress tree, giving its mane a gentle pat before turning to you. “From here, we walk,” he said, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You were already pulling out your phone. “Perfect. Natural lighting, ancient scenery—this is going on my mental Instagram.”

The forest seemed to hum around you, full of ancient life. You lifted your phone, instinctively snapping photos: the twist of an olive branch, the shimmer of light through leaves, the curve of moss on stone.

“Rosa,” Marcus warned softly, catching your hand mid-air. “Eyes on the path. You can admire the sky after we arrive.”

“Just one more—”

Your foot caught on a rock.

You yelped, the world tilting—only to find yourself swept off your feet and against Marcus’s chest in a blur of motion.

"By the gods, woman," he growled, lifting you almost effortlessly into his arms.

“Marcus!” you yelped, half laughing, half mortified. “You can’t— put me down!”

“If I let you walk, we’ll never reach our destination.”

You looped your arms around his neck out of instinct. “The horse got tired, and you walked for miles while I just sat, and now this? You’re like— I don’t know—Superman or something.”

Marcus frowned faintly. “Super...man. That man with the red cape? The one who flies?”

You chuckled. “Yes. I can’t believe you remember that.”

He gave a dry smile. “Hard to forget a story where men wear their undergarments outside their armor.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Touché.”

By the time you reached the clearing, the air had changed. The trees opened into a hidden glade, and there it was—a pool, half-fed by a thin waterfall, framed by smooth stone and wildflowers.

You gasped softly. “Whoa—”

He set you down gently, his eyes fixed on you, watching your every reaction like a man waiting for a prophecy to unfold.

You turned slowly, taking in the sight.

You lifted your phone again, trying to capture it, but your fingers trembled. “It’s… beautiful,” you whispered.

Marcus said nothing. His hands were clasped behind his back, his gaze unreadable but his heart racing—nervous, cautious, and a bit hopeful.

The water shimmered with a strange kind of light, reflecting clouds that didn’t quite match the sky. Something about it pulled at you—like a voice under the surface, calling your name in another tongue.

You moved closer to the edge, crouching down to dip your fingertips into the water—cold, alive. The ripples spread outward, distorting your reflection.

For a fleeting moment, it wasn’t just your face that stared back at you.

It was hers as well, but also a younger version of yourself—a girl with your eyes, but with a different hair color—your natural shade. Her bare shoulders glimmered in the sunlight.

Your breath caught. The air thickened.

You saw Rhea—you—in the same pool...

And suddenly, a vivid memory started unfolding before you like a scene from a movie.

As Rhea, you had come here to wash away the dust of the day — alone, as always — when the sound of cracking twigs froze your blood.

Someone was there.

You turned, heart hammering, and saw a shadow at the edge of the trees.

A man — tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in the dark red of a Roman soldier.

He looked as startled as you, yet his eyes… his eyes did not look away.

You gasped and crossed your arms over your chest, the steam curling around you like a fragile veil.

“Who are you?” you demanded, voice sharp despite the tremor. “Get away! ”

The man — Marcus, younger then, unburdened by rank or war — stood in the half-light, breath caught in his throat. For a heartbeat, he only stared, as if he had wandered into a myth, as if Venus herself had risen from the water just to look back at him.“The gods have strange ways of answering prayers,” he said, stepping closer. “I was chasing a stag, and instead I find…”

He stopped, the corner of his mouth curving. “A nymph of the woods. Or perhaps a goddess.”

“Nymph?” you shot back, voice trembling. “I’m not one of those forest spirits. Turn around and leave!”

“Are you certain you are not?” he asked, taking a slow step forward. “Because no mortal should look like—”

“Turn. Around!”

Marcus laughed, his laughter carefree, alive and so beautiful, making your heart ache…

You stumbled back, gasping; the murmur of the waterfall returned, distant, real. Marcus was there instantly, steady hands gripping your arms.

“You remember,” he said — not a question, but a knowing.

Tears blurred your sight. “That was… us? Our first meeting?” He nodded. “You knew. That’s why you brought me here... so I’d remember.”

He didn’t deny it.

His expression softened into something almost reverent.

“Why?” you breathed.

His knuckles lightly touched your cheek, his gaze tracing every line of your face as if rediscovering you. "Because this ground is sacred to me. It was here I first saw you — the most beautiful thing my eyes had ever dared to behold. Here I first tasted your lips. Here I came back from war, and you were my triumph. Every heartbeat worth living for began beneath these trees.” He hesitated, voice trembling like a man confessing before the altar. “And when you were gone…” The words faltered. His breath came ragged. “This was where I came to mourn.”

You couldn’t stop the tears now. They cascaded down your cheeks as your heart ached at the thought of his pain.

He’d come here.

Again and again.

Searching for something that wasn’t there.

He lowered his gaze. “This was the only place I could find solace. Rome has changed, I've changed, but this meadow remains, like the pain in my heart."

You threw your arms around him, your body shaking. His armor pressed cold against you, but his warmth was unyielding — you buried your face against his neck, sobbing quietly.

Marcus drew you down with him to the grass.

The scent of damp earth and wildflowers filled the air. You leaned against him, head resting on his shoulder. For a long while, the two of you sat in silence, the sound of the water and the birds folding around you like a lullaby.

You whispered, barely breathing, “How did you endure it, Marcus? All those years… without... me.”

His answer came after a moment, low and raw. “By courting death.” His tone carried no drama — only truth. “Each battle, I placed myself before every spear and blade, wishing one would find its mark. Once, it nearly did.”

He pressed his hand to his side — to that familiar scar you had seen many times. “A Saxon’s axe, deep enough to fell a bull. But not me. Not where it mattered.”

Your throat tightened. “Marcus…” You swallowed, shaking. “Goddamit, that’s— that’s horrible.”

He gave a bitter smile. “I was a fool. In my blindness, two of my brothers-in-arms fell by my side. Their blood bought me the lesson I needed — that dying would not lead me to you. The Fates are cruel, yet they are precise. They would have me live… suffer… wait.”

His eyes darkened, ancient sorrow flickering there like a dying fire. “So I did. I endured what years the gods measured for me, holding on to the hope that our reunion would await us in Elysium or perhaps in another life.”

You both thought of the first time you met again, in your own world, in 2025.

“The gods heard me after all,” he murmured. “Not kindly, perhaps… strange even... but they have heard.”

You blinked through tears, your breath trembling.

And then he leaned closer.

The world stilled.

“That day,” he whispered, “when I saw you in the water… I wanted to kiss you so fiercely the world itself might burn.”

You managed a tearful smile. “Then maybe you should’ve.”

He huffed a quiet, broken laugh. When his lips met yours, it was both a prayer and a wound — soft, desperate, infinite.

The day lingered in a warm glow. You sat in the meadow well into the evening, captivated by his voice — low and steady yet soft, weaving together the tapestry of your shared memories. He spoke of all the cherished moments you had together in this place.

As he talked, images flickered through your mind — part memory, part vision. Now you were certain, without a doubt.

You were her.

You had been here before.

You had loved him once, in a different skin, in another time.

The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a warm golden glow over everything, while the pool shimmered like a bowl of molten light. You stepped into the water, letting it rise to your knees, laughter bubbling up as Marcus splashed you with droplets. You returned the playful gesture, both of you enveloped in warmth and joy, the sound of your laughter gently reverberating through the woods and trees around you.

You had snapped too many pictures—the pool, the wildflowers, the two of you, and the light dancing on his face.

These were the memories you’d cherish when you both returned to your world in 2025.

As you noticed the darkness settling in, you realized your phone was almost out of battery. “Great,” you muttered, checking the screen.

Marcus smirked. “Let it fade, my love. When it does, you’ll have no choice but to look at me instead of that glowing device.”

You rolled your eyes, laughing softly. “Alright, alright… I’ll put it away,”

He bent to tie the leather straps of his sandals, quick and practiced.

You, on the other hand, fumbled with yours — the laces looping wrong, the knot slipping loose again.

“For— goddamn it,” you hissed, half laughing, half annoyed.

Marcus looked up, an amused spark in his eyes. “You may need a bit more patience,” he said, smiling. “Come. Sit.”

You hesitated, but he was already guiding you to a flat rock, his hands gentle but firm.

Then he knelt before you, one knee pressing into the grass, head bowed as he reached for your ankle.

For a moment, you forgot to breathe.

The sight of him — dark curls falling over his forehead, broad shoulders catching the last rays of light, armor subtly glinting in the twilight, and fingers nimbly working at the straps of your sandal — felt almost unreal.

It felt sacred, really.

He looked stunning in every outfit, whether modern or ancient Roman.

You couldn’t tear your gaze away from him; you knew you should lock this image in your memory.

You lifted your phone again, a smile creeping onto your lips.

The camera flickered back to life, barely enough charge for one last clip.

You started recording.

“Here we have,” you whispered in mock seriousness, turning the camera toward him, “a Roman general. A mighty legion commander… who also happens to tie his wife’s sandals. Devoted husband points: a hundred.”

Marcus glanced up from the sandal straps, brow quirked with curiosity.

“What are you doing?” he asked, a teasing note in his voice.

“I’m just capturing this moment,” you answered. “Come on, say something..."

Marcus kept tied your sandals, "Well, what can I say?” He glanced at the screen and added, “A general knows when to kneel—especially before the lady who rules his heart.” Then he leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your ankle before rising to his feet. You giggled and wrapped up the video with a quick kiss on his cheek to say thanks.

The twilight had deepened to violet, the first stars flickering above the treeline.

He turned back to you, eyes warm and faintly glowing in the dusk.

“Come, my love,” he said softly, holding out his hand. “It’s time we returned.”

You smiled faintly, still dazed from the sweetness of the moment, and reached for his hand.

Your phone buzzed in your other palm—one last stubborn flicker before the battery gave out.

A notification slid across the cracked screen.

You forgot to log your cycle. 5 days late.

For a moment, you didn’t process it.

Then your gaze froze, smile faded.

Five days late.

Your chest tightened.

Your mind began racing backward—dates, nights, the full moon. It should have come before the full moon. But it didn’t…

You swallowed hard, the air suddenly thick. The past few mornings—the nausea, the fatigue, the ache in your body, the tenderness—

No.

No, it couldn’t be.

You’d only missed your pills for a few days—just a few—

The phone buzzed again in your trembling hand, then went black.

It slipped from your fingers and vanished into the grass.

Your vision blurred, sound thinning to a distant hum.

“Rosa?” Marcus’s voice—sharp now, worried—cut through the haze.

You tried to answer, but the ground seemed to slip away beneath you.

Strong arms caught you before you fell, pulling you close.

“Rosa! What is it? Tell me.”

Your lips barely moved.

“Marcus…” you whispered, your voice shaking.

You swallowed hard, the world fading at the edges.

“I think… I—”

You couldn’t finish.

But your hands moved on their own, instinctively finding your stomach.

Marcus froze, brown eyes wide and searching yours.

And in that suspended moment—time stopped.

Looking deep into his eyes, you whispered, “I think I might be pregnant.”

hope you enjoyed the chapter babies, thanks for reading ❤️ Your thoughts are important to me, so please share them with me.

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