Page 56 of Thawed Gladiator: Varro

Later, as we sit by the fire eating chunks of seal meat we’ve spitted and cooked in the hearth, tears spring to my eyes. The meat is odd—both gamey and fishy and a little like liver. I would have spat this out if I’d eaten it back home, but it gave its life for us, and we’re going to use every part of it.

“Thank you for…” I wave my arms at the seal, then realize I’m thanking him for more than that. “Thanks forallyou do.”

His expression softens, and he reaches out to squeeze my hand. “I’m glad I could do this for you… provide.”

For months there’s been an odd imbalance of power, with me teaching him English and twenty-first-century tech, yet I’ve stood back and let him do all the caveman stuff without lifting a finger to help.

As we finish eating, I ask. “Hey, Varro? Do you think… could you teach me to use the spear?”

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “You want to learn?”

“Well, yeah. I’m not helpless. I need to be able to fend for myself, right?”

For a moment, he’s quiet, and I worry I’ve offended him somehow. But then a slow grin spreads across his face.

“Laura, nothing would make me happier than to teach you. But I warn you—I’m a tough instructor.”

Laughing, I feign nonchalance. “Bring it on, gladiator. I can take whatever you dish out.” Secretly, I wonder what this hardened man, this gladiator who survived years in the arena, might have in store for me.

As we clean up from dinner, planning our first training session, I’m struck by how much has changed. Just months ago, I was a modern woman with modern problems. Now, I’m learning to hunt and wield ancient weapons.

But looking at Varro, seeing the warmth in his eyes and the gentle curve of his smile, I realize I wouldn’t have it any other way. This may not be the life I imagined, but it’s ours.

Chapter Forty-Seven

Laura

I push open the cottage door, planning to search for herbs to sweeten our daily tea. The unseasonably warm weather has melted most of the remnants of the snowstorm that happened days ago. I’m hoping to find some wild mint or perhaps even some early spring flowers. But the moment I step outside, all thoughts of foraging vanish.

Varro is in the yard, practicing with Invictus. Even though the air is cool, he’s bare from the waist up.

I freeze in the doorway, mesmerized. I’ve seen him do this before, months ago, but I haven’t watched since then. It felt too intrusive, too personal. But now, I can’t look away.

His movements are fluid, graceful, reminiscent of Tai Chi, but with a deadly edge. He flows from one pose to another, the sword an extension of his body as he slashes and stabs at invisible opponents. The late afternoon sun bathes him in golden light, highlighting the play of muscles beneath his bronzed skin.

I’ve seen videos of legendary dancers like Baryshnikov and Nijinsky, but they pale in comparison to Varro’s raw, masculine grace. Every movement is precise, controlled, yet somehoweffortless. It’s a dance of power and beauty, of strength and finesse.

The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and new growth, mingled with the tang of the sea. But underneath it all, I catch whiffs of Varro’s unique sweet and salty sweat. It makes my heart race and my mouth go dry.

A bead of sweat trickles down his spine, catching the light as it traverses the map of scars on his back. They’re so much more pronounced in the daylight than they were when I gave him that massage. Each mark tells a story of survival, of battles fought and won, of pain administered for real or imagined transgressions. I find myself longing to trace them with my fingers, to learn their history through touch.

His muscles ripple with each movement, the corded strength of his arms evident as he wields the sword. The blade sings as it cuts through the air, a high, clear note that sends shivers down my spine. It’s a reminder of how deadly he can be, how much power is contained in that lithe form.

Varro lunges, the movement sharp and sudden. I gasp softly, my hand flying to my throat. He’s facing away from me, but I can picture his expression—intense, focused, lost in the rhythm of the exercise. His long hair, damp with sweat, whirls about his head. I have a sudden, overwhelming urge to brush it aside, to press my lips to his vulnerable nape.

As he continues his practice, my mind wanders to how much he’s changed since we first met. The man before me now is a far cry from the guarded, traumatized gladiator who emerged from the ice. He’s opened up to me, shared his deepest fears and painful memories. He’s learned to accept kindness without feeling the need to immediately repay it, understanding that not everything in life is a transaction.

I think back to the night of the massage, how he initially tensed at the scent of lavender but then allowed himself to relax, to enjoy the sensation without dissociating. It was a huge step forward, a sign of healing and trust that filled me with hope and pride.

Varro executes a complex series of moves, his body twisting and turning with catlike agility. The sight leaves me breathless, my pulse pounding in my throat. I’m acutely aware of every curve and plane of his body, every flex of muscle and sinew. The attraction I feel is so intense it’s almost painful—desire.

A warm breeze rustles through the nearby trees, carrying with it the promise of spring. Varro pauses in his routine, lifting his face to the wind. The tension in his shoulders eases, and I can almost see the weight of centuries lifting from him. In this moment, his profile looks younger, freer, unburdened by the ghosts of his past.

My heart swells with emotion. I want him. Not just physically, though that desire is palpable, burning hot, and insistent. I wantallof him—his strength and his vulnerability, his pain and his joy. I want to be the one he turns to for comfort, the one who makes him laugh, the one who stands by his side through whatever life throws our way.

The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. I’m not only in love with him, I’m ready to take a chance on it. I’ve kept him at a distance not to punish him, but to protect my heart from a man who might not be able to love me back. But hasn’t he proven in a thousand little ways that he’s open to that now?

Varro continues his practice, oblivious to my epiphany. His movements grow faster, more intense. The muscles in his back and arms bunch and release, a mesmerizing display of power and control. Sweat glistens on his skin, tracing paths I long to follow with my lips.

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