Page 12 of Thawed Gladiator Thrax

“Videos?”

“Moving pictures. On this screen.”

His eyes light up at the suggestion, and I feel a warmth spread through my chest. It’s adorable how excited he gets over things we take for granted.

As I scroll through YouTube, wondering if we should start with something small, like adorable cat pictures, I realize I’ve gotten no programming done today, and it’s after noon.

“You’ll have to take a raincheck on the videos.” I realize that was too much pop-culture-speak for the translation program. “I’ll have to show you the airplanes later because I need to get to work. Okay?”

Am I wrong, or does his usually stoic face show a hint of disappointment? But after he nods politely, I turn my attention to my laptop. I assume he’s left the atrium, but a little while later, a movement catches my eye.

Thrax is by one of the trees, his face a mask of concentration. I watch, fascinated, as he effortlessly moves a heavy outdoor chair that was clearly designed to stay in one place. Then, with a surprising gentleness that seems out of place for someone his size, he bends down and gently picks something up from the grass.

My breath catches as I see it’s a baby bird, too young to fly. Thrax steps onto the chair and, with incredible delicacy, places the tiny creature back in its nest, high up in the tree.

As he steps down, brushing his hands off on his jeans, my chest tightens. This hulking gladiator, with his scarred body and brutal past, just showed more tenderness than I’ve seen from most people in my life.

I quickly look back at my screen as he turns, not wanting him to catch me staring. But it’s too late. I’m drawn to him, not just because of his wide shoulders and trim waist, but because of the gentle soul peeking out that shines through his tough, scarred exterior.

It’s probably a bad idea. Well, no probably about it. He’s essentially my coworker, and there are a million reasons why this could complicate things. But as I sneak another glance at him, now sitting quietly on a bench and watching a butterfly with childlike wonder, I can’t help but smile and wish we could be friends.

Perhaps Varro and Laura traveling out of the country was a stroke of luck. It gives me more time alone with this gentle gladiator.

Chapter Eleven

Thrax

I head back to my room, feeling different…lighter. The day with Skye keeps replaying in my mind—her laughter, her kindness, the way her eyes lit up when she showed me something new. And she was just as excited when I gave her glimpses into my life. Even though I only gave her peeks of some of the few good moments of my life, I’ve never before felt so truly seen. Not as a slave or a gladiator, but as a person.

As I ease onto the edge of my bed, it’s as though a weight has been lifted from my shoulders, and something swirls in my belly. Is this what attraction feels like? The thought is exciting… and terrifying. I’ve never met anyone like Skye before. Well, that’s obvious. I grew up surrounded by gladiators and masters.

Still, she’s a tempting combination of smart, kind, and genuinely interested in what I have to say.

What I have to say.

The realization hits me like a blow to the gut. I spoke today. A lot. More than I have in years, perhaps decades. That warmth in my chest turns to ice as panic sets in.

What was I thinking? Speaking so freely, sharing my thoughts and feelings? I know better than that. Safety lies in silence, in being unseen and unheard. It’s how I’ve survived this long.

My breathing quickens as doubts flood my mind. Did I say too much? Make a fool of myself? Will Skye think less of me now that she’s heard me ramble on like an idiot? I’m astultus!

I close my eyes, breathing long and slow to calm myself, but the darkness behind my eyelids is a blank canvas that allows unpleasant memories to bombard me.

From one breath to another, I’m no longer in my hospital room. I’m eight years old again, standing in the dusty courtyard of theludusI’ve just arrived in, trembling with fear.

The sun beats down mercilessly, so different from the cool shade of the farm where I’ve spent my entire life. The air is thick with the smell of sweat, blood, and something else—fear, maybe, or desperation.

Around me, men of all ages train with wooden swords and shields. Their bodies are scarred and muscled, nothing like the lean farmers I’m used to. Their narrowed eyes follow my arrival. Their frowns tell me all I need to know about what they think of me.

“What’s this?” a gruff voice calls out. “They’re sending us babies now? He probably hasn’t gotten his first hard-on yet.”

Laughter erupts around me, harsh and mocking. I want to disappear, to sink into the ground and never be seen again.

Theludusmaster,whip in hand, is a bear of a man with a face like weathered leather. He circles me slowly. “Name?” he barks.

“Th-Thrax,” I stammer, my voice barely above a whisper.

“Speak up, boy! Are you a mouse or a man?”

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