She muffles her cry against his shoulder, finding the place where muscle slopes into his neck and biting down hard, though not hard enough to leave a mark. There is pleasure coiling in her already, sending warmth through her body even in the cool air and she presses fingers of one hand through his hair, holding onto him, riding every thrust of his hips.

"Spartacus."

She says it only because she knows it is not his name. Because she knows the power it held over the people of Rome, the fear they felt every time someone spoke it in hushed tones. It holds no power over her, not here in Darrow, and her hips arch toward him as she gasps the name again.