Page 52 of Thawed Gladiator: Varro

“Sit down, you stubborn gladiator,” Laura chides, pointing to the camp chair I’ve claimed as mine. “I’ve got this under control.”

I hesitate, unwilling to sit here and watch her work.

“At least let me help,” I offer, reaching for the broom.

She swats my hand away playfully. “Nope. You just saved our roof from collapsing. You’re the one who hunts our food, thatches the roof, collects most of the firewood, and a thousand other things I have no idea how to do because they didn’t teach that in the modern world. I can do this. So sit. Consider this your reward.”

Reluctantly, I perch on the chair, feeling strangely useless. No one has ever done this for me before—taken care of me without expecting anything in return. It’s… unsettling, and makes me vaguely suspicious, though I know I shouldn’t be.

As Laura works, humming a Saturnalia song softly to herself as she sweeps the mess of thatching out the door and mops the melted snow, I find my gaze drawn to her. She had us strip off our wet clothing and hung it up to dry from the rope we’ve strung across the cottage.

Now, all she’s wearing is her t-shirt and the pants that hug her like a second skin, reminding me she’s all woman—and off limits. The firelight dances across her face, highlighting the determined set of her jaw, the gentle curve of her cheek, and making the seaglass in the necklace I made her sparkle like diamonds. She’s beautiful. Not just physically, but in the way she moves, the way she cares.

“Food’s ready,” she announces, changing the direction of my thoughts. She hands me a steaming bowl of stew, our fingers brushing briefly. The contact sends a jolt through me, and I quickly look away as she turns again and places six smooth rocks close to the fire.

We eat in comfortable silence, the only sounds are the crackling of the fire and the howling wind outside. When we’re done, Laura takes our bowls and sets them aside.

“Alright,” she says, rubbing her hands together. “Time for that massage. Can I ask you to take off your shirt and lie on your stomach?”

I’m a grown man, a gladiator, but I have no control over my body as I freeze, my heart suddenly racing. “I don’t think—”

“Trust me,” she says softly. “You need this. Your muscles must be killing you after all that work and then wrenching your back as you carried me down. Look at you, so chivalrous.”

I don’t know that word, but by her tone, I imagine it’s a compliment. It’s her attempt to soothe me.

Swallowing hard, I nod, strip off my shirt, and lie face down on the bed. I hear Laura moving around, and then the mattress dips as she straddles my hips. The position is intimate and vulnerable. I have to fight the urge to throw her off.

Then I smell it. Lavender and olive oil. The scent hits me like a physical blow, and suddenly I’m not here anymore. I’m back in Rome, pinned beneath Domina, her cruel laughter ringing in my ears as she…

“Varro? Varro!”

Laura’s voice cuts through the fog, and I realize I’m panting through clamped teeth, my body drenched in sweat. She’s no longer on top of me, but crouched beside the bed, her face etched with concern.

“What’s wrong?” Her tone is gentle, as though she’s speaking to a child. “Talk to me.”

“Nothing,” I grunt, trying to sit up. “I’m fine.”

But Laura doesn’t believe me. She places a gentle hand on my arm, her touch bringing me back to the present. “It’s okay,” she murmurs. “You can tell me.”

I close my eyes, wrestling with myself. Part of me wants to brush it off, to maintain the walls I’ve built over the years. But a larger part, the part that’s been growing since I met Laura, wants to let her in. Besides, after what I told her yesterday, she knows most of it already.

“The lavender,” I finally manage. “It… it reminds me of Domina. Of things I’d rather forget.”

Understanding dawns on Laura’s face. “Oh, Varro,” she breathes. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“How could you?” I attempt a weak smile.

We sit in silence for a moment, Laura’s hand still on my arm. Then she speaks. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. Or, I can use cooking oil. But if you’re willing to try… maybe we can connect something new with that scent. Something better.”

I consider her words. The idea of facing this fear, of potentially overcoming it, is both terrifying and oddly appealing.

“How?” I ask.

“We’ll go slow,” Laura explains. “I’ll start with just my hands, no lotion. If at any point you want me to stop, just say the safe word. Okay?”

I turn my head so that I can seeher. “What’s a safe word?”

“Saying a safe word means that I immediately stop what I’m doing, no matter what. Any suggestions?”

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