Chapter 417: Bumping into a naked Freja

When it finally dawned on her that she was not hallucinating, her eyes widened in alarm. A brilliant crimson hue surged across her cheeks, spreading quickly to her ears and neck.

Freja’s fingers shot toward the towel with the desperation of a cornered animal, her knuckles whitening as she snatched the fabric tight against her soaked skin. The steam curled around her like smoke from a fire, hazing her silhouette as she stared wide-eyed at the intruder.

"W-Wh... wha... what are you doing here?!" Her voice cracked then roared, a sharp, high-pitched cry that rang out in the marbled silence of the bathhouse, echoing against wet stone and maybe far beyond the vaulted arches.

She staggered backward, feet skidding across slick tile—bare soles unable to find purchase on the film of steam-slick moisture. Her heel shot out from under her and she flailed with a sharp gasp—but before her skull could meet the brutal stone corner behind her, a hand caught hers.

Nathan.

But it wasn’t a gentle offer. Not to Freja’s startled mind.

His arm surged forward fast, too fast. Muscles flexed, his fingers closed around her wrist just as her body twisted in the fall—but all she saw was his face, too calm, too casual, invading the women’s bath as if it were his right. Her instincts screamed louder than any rational thought.

"Don’t touch me!" she hissed through clenched teeth, and in a flash, she twisted, yanked, and spun with surprising agility despite the slippery floor.

Nathan let out a slight sound of shock clearly not expecting her to refuse his helping hand. Instead Freja hauled his weight down with her, flipping the leverage and slamming him against the warm tiles. His back landed with a wet smack, water splashing beneath him, while Freja straddled his hips in one seamless, furious motion.

If he wanted he could have thrown her away but since he was the one who had been careless, Nathan chose to wait and see.

Freja summoned quickly a steel gleamed—thin, elegant from nowhere.

She held it steady just inches from his throat.

"You—!" Her voice was hoarse, breathless, trembling. Her bare chest rose and fell with each ragged inhale, face flushed crimson—not from exertion but raw, boiling shame. "What the hell do you think you’re doing here?!"

Nathan blinked up at her. Drenched hair clung to his forehead, expression blank with faint surprise and an almost irritating calm. His back soaked, arms sprawled, he didn’t even look at the sword pointed at his neck. His gaze had dropped.

Dropped... downward.

In the chaos of the fall—her reach, the spin, the impact—her towel had come loose. Freja hadn’t noticed obviously. And now, her nude body was straddling his, completely exposed to his gaze, every curve visible in the glistening steam.

And Nathan didn’t even hide his gaze.

Her breasts, small, pert, nipples hardened both from hot water and surging humiliation, bounced slightly with every breath she took. They weren’t large at all clearly not blessed in that department. She could have passed for a flat chested if not for the slight swell but somehow that was exactly why her breasts were so beautiful in Nathan’s eyes.

Her skin was flawless, soft, pale, glistening with droplets like dewdrops over porcelain.

Nathan’s gaze lingered only for a second before sliding down.

Her abdomen was lean, lightly toned, with a graceful line tracing her navel downward. Her hips, in contrast, flared with natural curve—strong, smooth, womanly. And then—

His eyes rested lower. Her thighs parted as she knelt above him, legs straddling his waist, and in the clear line between them, he could see her pussy—entirely bared, soft, clean, untouched, perfectly framed by smooth skin and the subtle, delicate crease of closed lips glistening faintly under the steam. Not a hint of hair. Not a mark. A virgin’s perfection, untasted, unseen—until now.

Obviously Nathan’s lingering gaze not on her neither on her sword caught Freja’s attention.

She followed his gaze.

Then she saw it.

The realization hit her like a crashing wave—her entire body was exposed. Completely, vulnerably naked. Her breath caught in her throat, and for a moment, time itself seemed to freeze around her.

"E-Eeeeeh... no...!" she gasped, her voice cracking as crimson bloomed across her cheeks. The commanding, composed strong woman who had confidently spoke to him just yesterday was nowhere to be found. In her place was a flustered, startled young woman, her tone trembling with embarrassment and disbelief.

Nathan didn’t let the moment go to waste. In one fluid movement, he reached out, gripping her wrist firmly and twisting it at an angle that made her instinctively release her weapon. The sword clattered uselessly to the floor as he swiftly reversed their positions with practiced ease.

Freja’s world spun—and before she could even register what had happened, she found herself on the ground. Nathan had already pinned her, straddling her waist with firm control, his hands holding her down. His body loomed over hers, a stark contrast to her exposed, vulnerable form.

"D-DON’T LOOK!!" she shrieked, her voice raw and frantic as she flung her arms up to shield her chest. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, her lip trembling. It wasn’t just shame—it was fear, too. A fear born not from the man above her, but from being seen so completely, without armor or pride.

She struggled, writhing beneath him, but Nathan didn’t budge. He held her gently but firmly, making it clear he meant no harm, yet refusing to let her go.

For a long moment, he simply stared down at her, his expression unreadable. And though his eyes did not wander disrespectfully, he couldn’t deny it—he didn’t regret stepping into that bathhouse. He had stumbled upon a breathtaking view, one he doubted he would forget for the rest of his life.

"There’s nothing to hide," Nathan said quietly.

"W-What?! I’ll kill you!" Freja snapped, a mix of fury and humiliation contorting her face. Her pride, already wounded, flared at the implication, and perhaps even more so at his calm demeanor. With a sharp motion, she lifted her free hand to strike him.

But Nathan caught it effortlessly.

"Calm down," he said. "It was an accident."

"Th-Then let me go!" Freja demanded, her voice high-pitched and cracking. Her only concern now was escaping—getting away and finding something, anything, to cover herself. She didn’t care whether he meant it or not; modesty and self-respect were screaming at her to flee.

"Not yet," Nathan replied, unmoved. "First, tell me where I can find Elin."

Her expression shifted instantly.

"Elin?" she repeated, eyes narrowing with suspicion despite her predicament. Even now, flustered and bare, she managed to muster a flicker of defiance for the sake of her friend. "Why?"

Nathan’s lips curved into a faint smile. That suspicion, that protectiveness—he found it admirable, even now. Despite everything, Freja’s first instinct was to shield someone else.

"I need her for something," he answered vaguely, keeping his tone deliberately neutral.

He wasn’t ready to share the real reason. If word reached Caesar—especially after what had happened with Fulvia—it could be disastrous. The last thing he needed was the emperor suspecting an alliance between him and Fulvia’s family, particularly if healing magic was involved. Some things were better kept quiet, even if it meant frustrating someone like Freja.

"I’m not telling you anything until you tell me what for," she said stubbornly, turning her face away from his as if that would give her some shred of control over the situation. Her voice had regained some of its fire, though her body still trembled slightly under his.

"Aren’t you afraid of what I could do to you?" Nathan asked, his voice low and serious, his gaze steady.

There was no overt threat in his tone—no raised voice, no leering grin—but the weight of the question hung in the air like a blade suspended over her. He hadn’t meant to frighten her, not exactly. Yet, for reasons he couldn’t quite explain, this woman—this brash, fiery Freja, whom he had all but dismissed after their first encounter—had managed to capture his attention in an unexpected way.

Maybe it was the shared origin. Like him, she came from Earth. She wasn’t some otherworldly noble or native soldier—she was someone who understood what fear and power meant in the modern sense. And she should’ve known, by all logical metrics, just how outmatched she was right now.

Freja’s body stiffened beneath him. Her eyes widened slightly. Then, with defiance laced into her trembling voice, she barked, "W-What are you going to do?!"

As if daring him. As if she refused to cower.

Nathan didn’t answer right away. He stared down at her, the steam from the bathhouse curling around them like ghostly tendrils. His expression remained unreadable.

"No one’s around," he began slowly, his words deliberate and cold. "I’m lying atop you. You are lying down naked. I’m stronger than you. So tell me—what do you think another man would do to you, if he were in my place?"

The words hit like a slap. Freja’s mouth opened as if to speak, but no sound came. Her lips quivered, and fear flashed in her eyes. "I... If you do that... someone will find out! Someone

will

know!"

Nathan’s eyes narrowed.

"I serve under Emperor Caesar himself," he said coolly, a subtle edge creeping into his voice. "Do you really think anything will happen to me... without proof?"

It wasn’t a boast. It was a grim reminder.

A reminder that in Rome, justice bent for power. In Rome, evidence was everything—and power silenced most things before evidence could even be gathered. He had no intention of harming her, but the cruel irony of the truth hung in the air like a storm cloud.

Maybe it was a part of him, the twisted sliver of a sadist, awakened and sharpened after spending too much time in the company of Medea. Or perhaps, revealed something that had always been lurking beneath the surface.

Freja flinched, her breath catching. She knew his words were true.

This was

Rome

.

And in Rome, men like Nathan—men with titles, influence, and the Emperor’s favor—could do nearly anything and walk away unscathed.

Her arm pressed more tightly against her breasts. Her body trembled, not out of cold, but from something far deeper. She didn’t respond—not with words, not with pleas. She didn’t try to reason or scream.

She simply stared back at him, silent, defiant despite trembling and powerless.

She bit her lip hard—so hard that it broke the skin. A thin line of blood trickled down, staining her chin. Yet she didn’t cry, didn’t whimper.

Nathan stared at her, something shifting in his eyes.

She didn’t beg.

She didn’t plead.

She endured.

And that was enough. He’d pushed her far enough—too far, perhaps. The brief satisfaction of asserting dominance faded, leaving behind only a cold aftertaste.

Without a word, Nathan rose to his feet. He reached down and grasped her arm—not harshly, but firmly—and pulled her up with him.

Freja stumbled slightly, confused by the sudden shift. She looked up at him, eyes wide and still filled with fear, uncertainty.

From the folds of his spatial storage, Nathan summoned a dry towel. Wordlessly, he draped it over her trembling body, pressing it gently against her skin, shielding her from further humiliation.

"I’ll wait outside," he said.

And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving Freja standing alone in the silence and steam.