Page 20 of Thawed Gladiator Thrax

The room is quiet for a moment, but Skye finds a need to fill the silence.

“So, have you ever heard of a TV show calledFirefly? Of course not. You’ve never watched TV. That’s okay. It’s my favorite series of all time. I’m what they call a ‘browncoat’—that’s what we fans call ourselves.”

And just like that, she’s off, launching into a detailed explanation of this Firefly thing. Her words wash over me, a soothing stream of sound that slowly pulls me back from the edge of my dark memories.

“…and then there’s this character called Jayne. He kind of reminds me of some of the gladiators you’ve described. Oh! And the way they depict life on the outer planets is probably not too different from how some of the poorer areas of ancient Rome might have been…”

She pauses for a breath, her cheeks flushed. “Please, God, just tell me when I can quit talking.”

I almost smile at that. Almost.

As she continues, she shifts her chair to face me directly. I find I don’t mind the change. It gives me a better view of her lively expressions, the way her intelligent brown eyes light up when she talks about something she loves.

Gradually, I feel myself settling back into the present. This wasn’t like that night in Rome. The party in the dining room wasn’t an intentional attempt to hurt me. These people, strange as they are, aren’t those cruel patricians from my past.

Skye’s voice falters for a moment, and I realize she’s running out of steam. Without thinking, I reach out and grip her hand. Our gazes meet, and suddenly, everything shifts.

The remaining spiderweb of memories retreats, pushed away by the warmth in Skye’s gaze. In this moment, I see her clearly for perhaps the first time. She’s not just attractive, she’s a treasure. No one paid her to sit on the dirty floor, talking to a closed door with her fingers stretched underneath as though they were plant tendrils seeking the sun. She did that because she cared.

“Thank you,” I say, my voice low and rough with emotion. “For staying. For talking.”

Skye’s smile is like the sun breaking through clouds. “Of course, Thrax. That’s what friends do.”

Friends. The word settles in my chest, warm and comforting. I find myself talking about nothing of substance—the birds I’ve seen in the atrium, my thoughts on the strange food in the cafeteria, my curiosity about the computers and phones everyone uses. It doesn’t matter what I say. What matters is that I’m here, fully present, with Skye.

We talk until the tension drains from both of us, replaced by a comfortable ease. Our hands remain linked, a physical anchor to this moment, to each other. For the first time since waking in this strange new world, I feel truly connected to someone.

As night deepens outside my window, I realize I don’t want this moment to end. But there will be other moments, other conversations. Skye isn’t going anywhere. And neither am I.

Chapter Nineteen

Skye

The frantic need to fill every silence with words gradually fades, leaving a comfortable quiet between us. Our hands remain linked, a warm connection that grounds me in this moment. When I think Thrax isn’t looking, I allow myself to steal glances at him, really taking him in.

My barriers crumble, and I admit to myself what I’ve been trying to ignore—I find Thrax incredibly attractive. It’s not just his huge frame and perfect muscles, though that certainly doesn’t hurt. There’s something about his quiet strength, the gentle nature he hides beneath his tough exterior, that draws me in. His personality and the glimpses I’ve seen of the man beneath his facade fascinate me.

A protective urge wells up inside me. I want to help him, to ease the pain I’ve seen flickering in his eyes. It’s too soon to ask about what happened in his mind for those long moments I sat on the floor outside his door. That wound is still too raw. But maybe we’ve built enough of a rapport for me to ask about something else I’ve been concerned about. Although he’s vulnerable, this may be the perfect time to bring this up.

Taking a deep breath, I gather my courage. “Thrax,” I infuse my voice with gentleness, “can I ask you something? About your ear?”

His hand tenses slightly in mine. I’ve seen him cover the misshapen ear with his left hand when he feels anxious. It’s a testament to the trust we’re building that he doesn’t pull away. He gives the smallest nod, his eyes guarded.

“I noticed it’s shaped differently than your other ear,” I say carefully. “Usually, that’s from some kind of physical trauma. Do you know how it happened?”

Thrax’s brow furrows. “I assumed I was born this way,” he admits. “It’s been like this for as long as I can remember.”

My heart aches at the confusion in his voice.

“Can you tell me about your childhood?” I ask softly. “Were there people who… hurt you?”

His eyes cloud with memories. “The farm owner and his wife,” he says quietly. “They weren’t kind. There were constant mean words, hitting with hands and… whatever was nearby. Almost daily ear-cuffing when I didn’t learn tasks quickly enough.”

I squeeze his hand, offering silent support.

“I took the liberty of looking into the condition.” I watch him carefully for any sign of anger at my presumption. “It’s called cauliflower ear.”

To my relief, rather than being upset, he seems touched by my concern. Encouraged, I pull out my phone and show him some pictures I found.

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