Page 13 of Thawed Gladiator: Varro

As I pull in a trickle of air, I silently plead with the universe, with the goddess Fortuna, for a miracle. In this moment of terror, one thing becomes crystal clear—my fate is now inextricably tied to this Roman’s, a bond forged in ice and death.

Chapter Twelve

Marcus Fabius Varro

The weight of Domina presses down on me, her skin fragrant with the familiar scent of olive oil and lavender. I’m back in that suffocating dining room, the jeering laughter of the patricians ringing in my ears,and my mistress’s hand massaging my reluctant cock.

But something is wrong. The air is frigid, biting at my exposed skin. The surface beneath me is cold and unyielding, a far cry from the table in Gracchus’s dining room. Confusion swirls through my mind, a dizzying mix of past and present… Or is this a dream?

I blink, the room coming into focus. Strange curving white tent-like walls surround me, like nothing I’ve ever seen before. The woman atop me is gasping, her fingers scrabbling at my hands, wrapped around her throat.

Normally my grip would have crushed her windpipe, but she’s still able to pull in a wheezing breath.

“Prohibere,” she chokes out, her voice thinand strained. “Quaeso.”

The words hit me like a physical blow—stop, please. This isn’t Domina. The realization crashes over me in a wave of sickening clarity. What have I done?

I release the pressure of my grip. My fingers, stiff and uncooperative, remain on her throat. The woman sucks in a ragged breath, her chest heaving as she pulls away from me, but she can’t break my hold.

I watch through hooded eyes, taking in her features. Her heart-shaped face is surrounded by a wild tangle of blond hair. She has high cheekbones and a delicate nose. Her eyes, wide with fear, are a striking shade of brown, like warm honey in sunlight. Lips, full and pink, tremble slightly as she gasps for air. I take stock of all this before I realize she is nude.

She begged me to stop, but what in the fires of Infernus is she doing on top of me? I’m weak as a kitten and she’s got the better position, but something tells me I could crush her if I want. No one is guarding the strange doorway. I could strangle her in a second and run to safety. I give her a moment as I listen to her mumble in a strange tongue I’ve never heard before.

“Tu quoque frigus.” Now she’s speaking Latin, though in an odd accent so thick it’s hard to understand her statement, “You’re too cold.” “Ego te calefieri.” “I’m trying to warm you.”

I keep my hands on her neck but reduce all pressure as she cups my cheeks with her palms, rubbing me. Her hands are soft, unlike the calloused hands of slaves or the bejeweled fingers of patrician women. They’re strong yet gentle, speaking of a life of purpose and care. She rubs my shoulders and arms as she presses her body tighter to mine, her cheek to my chest as though she wants as much of her skin on mine as possible.

“Domina?” My voice is soft, as though I’m twelve again.

“No.Amica.”

Friend? That remains to be seen. Still, if Domina were lying on me like this, there would be no doubt as to her motive, but this woman seems to be doing just what she said—trying to warm me.

When she tips her head to look at me, the terror in her eyes is all too familiar, a mirror of the fear that gripped me so many times in the past. I release her completely and my fingers slide through the thick tangles of her gold hair that stops just past her shoulders.

Friend? I don’t believe it for a minute. Romans don’t have friends, only people they use for one reason or another. Her hand hasn’t slipped to my cock, which means she has another use for me. Clearly, she wants me alive.

Exhaustion tugs at my limbs, a bone-deep weariness I can no longer fight. The room fades, the edges of my vision blurring as I slip back into the waiting darkness.

But even as I drift, the questions remain, circling my mind like vultures. Where am I? How did I come to be in this strange, frigid place? And who is this woman, who wears Domina’s scent like a second skin?

The answers hover just out of reach, taunting me, elusive. I can’t keep my eyes open anymore. Perhaps this woman will send me to the Underworld. It would be a well-deserved rest.

Chapter Thirteen

Laura

The moment he releases my throat with a sigh, I wonder if he’s died. That’s an odd thought. Wasn’t he already dead? As I occupy my mind with unanswerable questions, I feel his chest rise and fall. Okay, he’s alive. I can relax. After getting more comfortable, I resume my efforts to warm his skin.

My mind rebels at the situation. Two-thousand-year-old men do not reanimate. It’s just not possible. If it were, every fish and creature of the deep would just pop back to life after being frozen. Shaking my head, I let the worry go. I may not understand what’s going on, but one thing is certain—that man breathed. He said “Domina,” and he tried to choke the life out of me before he got too tired and weak to accomplish his goal.

Even as that is churning in the back of my mind, the front of my mind is calculating how to get him back to my tent, which is the only warm room in the compound. I scramble off of him and the skid, my bare feet slapping against the frigid floor as I hastily pull on my boots and discarded clothes. The chill seeps into my bones, but I push the discomfort aside, focusing on the task at hand.

First, I need to clear the water, dirt, and melted ice from the skid. I grab a mop and bucket from the common room, then work feverishly to soak up the icy liquid and push the dirt aside. My muscles ache with the effort, and I’m shaking from the cold, but I don’t stop until the skid is as clean as I can manage.

Next, I eye the outline of his muscular frame under the sleeping bags, my stomach twisting with apprehension. He’s all muscle and probably outweighs me by eighty pounds. I’m not sure I have the strength to maneuver him alone. But I have to try.

Suddenly, I have a revelation. This man wanted to kill me. No. He didn’t justwantto kill me, hetriedto kill me. How can I even think of putting him in my tiny room with me?

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