Page 50 of Thawed Gladiator: Varro

Chapter Forty-Three

Laura

I wake to the sound of howling wind, my eyes fluttering open to a world of white peeking around the edges of our window tarps. For a moment, I’m disoriented, wondering why I feel so warm and content despite the raging storm. Then I remember—Varro’s holding me close, his heavy, reassuring arm draped over my waist.

Yesterday floods back as I replay Varro’s emotional overwhelm, his raw vulnerability as he shared his deepest secrets, the way we held each other through the night. My heart swells, threatening to burst with the intensity of my feelings for this man.

I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up. Varro’s been through so much trauma, it’s a miracle he can function at all, let alone form meaningful connections. But as I lie here, listening to his steady breathing, I can’t help but wonder if maybe he’s beginning to heal.

The way he opened up to me, the trust he showed—it has to mean something, right? I close my eyes, offering up a quick prayer. Please, God, let him find peace. Let him be able to love and be loved without fear or intrusive memories.

I’m so lost in my thoughts that I almost miss the first ominous creaking sound. But when it comes again, louder this time, my eyes snap open.

“Varro,” I whisper urgently, shaking his shoulder. “Wake up. Something’s wrong.”

He’s instantly alert, years of gladiator training kicking in. “What is it?”

Before I can answer, there’s a deafening crack, and suddenly part of our roof caves in. Snow pours down, along with a blast of frigid air that steals my breath away. A mound of snow is piled where my bed once sat, with ice and sleet poring through a person-sized hole. The fire flickers in the hearth and most of our dry clothes are instantly soaked.

“Dear Lord! We need to fix this. Now.”

Varro’s already moving, pulling on his clothes and boots, grabbing for his coat. “I’ll climb up and check the damage. You grab the materials we need for repairs.”

I nod, scrambling to get dressed. As I step outside, the full force of the storm hits me. The wind is so strong it nearly knocks me off my feet, and the snow is so thick I can barely see a foot in front of me.

“By Hercules, this storm is raging!” Varro shouts over the wind.

Our coats are lightweight rain jackets with hoods. Our gloves are thin. We’ve added several layers underneath, but we don’t have the proper winter gear like thermal underwear, wool socks and hats, or insulated coats and pants. The salvage expedition was supposed to end in September.

Needing to focus, I tamp down a surge of fury. Whether it’s at Garrison for abandoning me or the storm itself doesn’t matter. We need to fix our roof.

Squinting against the onslaught, I make my way to my small tent. We set it in the woods behind the cottage and use it for storage.I gather rope, extra thatching bundles Varro made for just such an emergency, and the tarp we’ve been saving for emergencies.

As I look at the tarp, I’m hit with the realization that I’m an idiot. We should have used the tarp, or better yet, material from the larger tent, on the roof in the first place. When the weather clears, we’ll redo the roof, making it weather resistant. Right now, we have a hole to fix.

My fingers burn with cold through my thin archaeology gloves as I struggle with supplies.

A shout cuts through the howling wind, sending ice through my veins that has nothing to do with the temperature. “Laura! Hurry!”

My heart pounds as I race toward the cottage, arms full of the tarp and thatching bundles. As I round the corner, I see Varro on the roof, struggling against the gusting wind and snow.

He has the broom in his hand, pushing the accumulated snow off the roof, his feet on the ladder he made with branches and rope several weeks ago. The ladder is slowly sliding out from under him.

I drop the thatching, place the heavy canvas tarp on top, and grab the ladder. He leans over the roof to take his weight off the rung while I reposition it more securely under him.

With his feet stable on the branch cross piece, he shoves the last pile of snow over the edge of the roof and tosses the broom to the ground. He looks down at me with a grateful smile.

I reach to lift the corner of the tarp to get the bundle of thatch and realize there’s no way we’ll be able to secure dry grass in this storm. I grab the tarp and let the thatch blow away in the next gust.

Looking back up, I see Varro process this situation.

Stepping carefully down the ladder, he joins me on the ground. As he grabs the rope I realize he’s going to need to cut it. I dash back inside and snatch the sharp knife.

Returning to Varro, he’s reaching for the knife in my hand just as I’m passing it to him. We work together, silently and efficiently, a perfect team, cutting the cord and threading and securing the pieces through the grommets in the tarp.

“Can you toss me the thatching?” His hand is braced over his eyes while his hair flies about his face.

I barely hear him over the howling wind but know enough that he needs the thatching. I toss the first bundle to him, but it falls back onto the ground, bursting open. At this rate, I’m doing more harm than good.

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