Page 67 of Thawed Gladiator: Varro

“It’s nothing. I’ve had worse scratches from you in bed.”

“Remind me to define the word macho for you later. Right now, you’re going to quit arguing and let me tend you.”

After hurrying into the cottage, I grab our makeshift first-aid kit. When I tell him to sit so I can nurse him, he yanks the supplies away from me.

“Let me care for you first, love.”

His wound is clearly worse than mine, but I don’t waste precious moments arguing, knowing it will do no good.

He gently wipes the blood from my arm, using what is almost the last of our antiseptic on the cut across my biceps. Then he wraps a bandage around my arm.

The expression on his face is so tender, so fond, I imagine he would tend to me with cartoon Band-Aids if we had such a thing. Although I didn’t think it was possible, my love for him swells even bigger at this sweet treatment, feeling as though it will burst my heart. The wound isn’t deep and has already stopped bleeding.

“Now, my love, let me tend you.”

With trembling hands, I clean the wound with boiled water and a strip of clean cloth. Varro remains stoic, not even flinching as I work.

After dousing him with antiseptic, I wrap a bandage tightly around his torso. “We don’t have Mickey Mouse Band-Aids, but this should make it better.”

Leaning forward, I press a kiss on the spot directly over his wound. Perhaps the star-struck look on his face is similar to the one I had only moments ago when my beloved gladiator tended me as though I was the most precious thing in the world.

“Thank you, Laura. I never dreamed how good it would feel to have a woman want to nurse me.” He snatches my hand and kisses my knuckles.

“What are…’Mickey Mouse Band-Aids’?” He asks, quoting the unknown phrase carefully.

“I’ll explain later, my love.” I say with a laugh.

“Now, I need to take care of… the mess.” Varro spears me with a look of steel.

It’s only now that we’ve dressed each other’s wounds that I can pay attention to all the emotions roiling through me. They’re so intense they make my knees weak. We made it. We survived.

But as the adrenaline fades, the reality of our situation sets in. Three dead bodies lie just feet outside our door. One of them is dead by my hands.

“Varro.” My voice is a cracked whisper. “I killed a man.”

“Yes, my darling woman, you killed a man. I know how you feel about this, but it saved your life, saved both of our lives. Will your God punish you for this?” His brow creases with worry. He so clearly doesn’t want me to face my god’s wrath.

Thou shalt not murder. It’s a commandment, pretty huge. But years of Catholic school taught me the difference between killing and murder.

“No, love. This was self-defense.”

Still, I go around the far side of our lovely little cottage and heave, although I haven’t eaten since breakfast and nothing comes up but bile. When I return to Varro, he has a bottle of clean water he’s refilled from the spring. As he hands it to me, he tells me to go into the house and pack while he cleans up the mess.

“I’m going to take Jenny to the compound and make sure there aren’t other invaders. Stay inside. You don’t need to see this.” His face is filled with compassion.

“Pack?” Of course we need to pack. We can’t stay here. Haven’t I told him a thousand times how I can’t wait to be rescued? Can’t wait for coffee and steak and a freaking bathtub? Yet now the thought of returning to civilization terrifies me. How will this amazing gladiator, so sure of himself, the master of this environment, handle cars and planes and computers?

And how on Earth will he handle the onslaught when news of his origins hits the media?

Perhaps I’ve been standing here dithering for too long, because he interrupts my reverie with, “Pack, love. We’ll sleep here tonight. After I… remove these bodies, we’ll discuss what to do next.”

He gives me a meaningful look and continues, “But we both know you don’t belong on this island, and we both know…” His long pause makes my stomach cramp. “We both know I don’t really belong anywhere.”

Chapter Fifty-Four

Laura

The roar of the boat’s engine fills the air as we cut through the choppy waters. Varro stands near his seat, his eyes wide with wonder at how fast we’re speeding over the vast sea. I miss his long hair, which would be whipping around his head if I hadn’t cut it this morning in my hopes it would help him fit in.

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