Page 17 of Thawed Gladiator: Varro

Warmth spreads through my chest at his words, catching me off guard. What is wrong with me? He’s a subject of study, nothing more. An incredible, once-in-a-lifetime discovery, but still just that—a… science experiment.

Yet as I rinse the cloth and continue my ministrations, I can’t shake the growing awareness of him as a person. A man who’s been through God knows what, waking up in a world he can’t possibly understand.

The room is quiet except for the water lapping in the basin. Our eyes meet, and for a moment, the tension in the air shifts. It’s no longer just the wariness of two strangers, but something… else. Something that makes my breath catch.

Rinsing the cloth again, I soap it up and hand it to him. “You can… do the rest yourself.” My gaze dips to his privates, chastely covered by the sleeping bag, then I turn my back until he murmurs, “I’m done.”

I thought that would be the end of the bathing adventure, but I blurt, “Shall I do your hair?”

He pauses, his brow pleated as though he’s repeating my words in his head, looking for the catch.

“Yes.” He nods, his gaze catching mine for the first time since the bath started.

After fetching more clean, warm water, I squeeze behind the head of his bed in this enclosed space, place a towel under his head to keep from drenching the bedclothes, and get to work.

Perhaps because his hawklike gaze was on me when I was bathing him, and the process itself was fraught was wariness on both our parts, I performed it with swift, business-like motions. Now, without his scrutiny, I find myself enjoying the sensual process of washing his long, dark hair.

As I run my fingers through Varro’s damp locks, a shiver runs down my spine. The silky strands slip between my fingers, surprisingly soft for someone who’s been frozen in ice for millennia. The scent of the herbal shampoo mingles with something uniquely him—a hint of salt and pine that transports me to ancient forests by the sea.

“Is this… acceptable?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

Varro’s eyes are closed, his breathing steady. For a moment, I wonder if he’s fallen asleep. Then his deep voice rumbles, sending vibrations through my hands.

“It’s… agreeable,” he admits, a note of surprise in his tone.

A small smile tugs at my lips. Who would have thought that washing a two-thousand-year-old Roman’s hair could be so… intimate? The thought catches me off guard, and I snatch my hands back to rinse them in the basin as I take a moment to focus.

Laura, this is purely scientific. Right?

But as I massage his scalp, working the lather through his thick mane, it’s hard to maintain that clinical detachment. My fingers brush against his nape, and I feel goosebumps rise on his skin.

What am I thinking? That this poor man, completely out of his element, stranded, out of time, is feeling the same sensual swirl of feelings that I am?

Get a grip. Even with the heater on, he’s wet and cold, nothing more.

The sloshing water in the basin becomes a soothing rhythm, almost meditative. I find myself relaxing, my earlier tension melting away like the soap bubbles disappearing in the water.

“You have… skilled hands,” Varro murmurs, his voice husky.

Heat rushes to my cheeks. “I, uh… thanks.”

As I rinse his hair, letting the warm water cascade over his scalp, I can’t help but notice the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his lips. He’s undeniably handsome, in a rugged, classical way that is the stuff of Hollywood heroes.

Stop it, Laura. He’s a research subject, not a potential… anything else.

But as I wrap a towel around his head, gently patting his hair dry, I can’t shake the feeling that something has shifted between us. The air feels charged, alive with possibilities I hadn’t even considered before.

Varro opens his eyes fully, meeting my gaze. There’s a warmth there that wasn’t present before, a hint of… something. Gratitude? Interest?

“Thank you.” His voice is soft, sincere. “I feel better.”

I smile, suddenly aware of how close we are. I can feel the heat radiating from his body, see the shine reflected in his dark eyes.

“You’re welcome,” I reply, my voice barely audible.

“I wasn’t lying, Varro. I mean you no harm.” For a moment, it seems we’re having an unspoken conversation, although for the life of me, I have no idea what either of us is saying. To break the mood, I pop up and take a few steps to the doorway. “Um, one more thing. Be right back.”

I dash to the men’s tent, rummaging through their toiletries until I find an unopened toothbrush. When I return, Varro eyes the small plastic object suspiciously.

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