Page 35 of Thawed Gladiator Thrax

My mouth goes dry as I watch Thrax move. His face is a mask of concentration, eyes intense as he anticipates Varro’s next move. Sweat beads on his back, and I find myself mesmerized by a droplet that trails down his rippling muscles, following the twisted paths of scars.

Their sparring intensifies, the wooden swords a blur of motion. Thrax feints left, then spins to the right, his sword arcing through the air. Varro barely manages to block the strike, the force of it pushing him back a step. The men grunt every time their weapons crack against each other. They’re totally focused on their match until they circle each other warily, seeming to take a breather.

“Not bad for an old man,” Varro teases.

Thrax’s lips quirk into a half-smile. “Old? I’m barely a day over two thousand and thirty. I happen to know you’re older than that, and I’m just getting warmed up.”

They attack each other again, their bodies moving in a deadly dance. Thrax’s muscles flex and strain with each movement. I can’t tear my eyes away from the display of raw strength and skill.

Finally, with a complex series of moves, Thrax manages to disarm Varro. The wooden sword thumps onto the soft ground, and Varro raises his hands in surrender, laughing.

“Well done, Thrax. You haven’t lost your touch.”

Varro’s about to leap to his feet when Thrax stops him as he looks at me. “What say you, Skye? Thumbs up or down?”

Panic rages through me like wildfire until I see his expression. Dear God, that man gets more handsome every day. His eyes arehappy!He’s teasing.

Instead of putting my thumb up or down, I hold my thumb to the side and say, “I’m not touching that question with a ten-footpole other than to say that I want you both to live so my friend Laura and I can watch you handsome men fight another day.”

We all laugh as Thrax pulls Varro off the ground. When they walk toward us, still catching their breath, I can’t help but stare at Thrax. His chest heaves with exertion, a sheen of sweat making his skin glow in the morning light. Our eyes meet, and the intensity in his gaze shoots straight to my core, my very eager core that is ready to take our relationship to the next level.

“That was… impressive,” I manage to say, my voice slightly husky.

Thrax’s smile is warm, almost shy. “Thanks. It feels good to practice again. Perhaps I’ll teach you the basics.”

“I don’t want to lose my head.” I laugh, but this gentle giant might forget I’ve never held a sword.

“Easy moves. No sparring. It’s fun. You’ll see.”

I’ve never been much for exercise, but this just might be a new workout regimen. What could be bad about watching him up close and personal as he swings that gladius?

We settle around the picnic table; the tension about Roth has faded to the back of our minds. As my friends kid each other, I find it hard to pay attention. There’s only one thing I want right now. It’s about six foot five, with a wide, sweaty chest, beautiful caramel-colored eyes, and a kind, generous spirit.

Chapter Thirty

Skye

My fingers fly on the keyboard as I work feverishly on the translation program. Thrax left hours ago to work on his secret project with Hans. I only spared a minute wondering what the project is that’s so important he won’t even leak a hint, then I dove into the world of code. The integration with the hardware earpiece is looming, and there’s still so much to do.

Time slips away as I debug and refine algorithms. I’m so engrossed in my work, I barely notice what time it is. It’s not until a shadow falls across my screen that I look up, blinking as I realize I’ve been so busy I haven’t taken a sip of water in hours.

Thrax stands before me, a gentle smile on his face. ‘‘It’s almost dinnertime,” he says, his deep voice sending a pleasant shiver down my spine. “You’ve been working all day.”

Glancing at the time display on my laptop, I’m shocked to see how late it’s gotten. “I guess I lost track of time.”

“If you think you’ve done enough work for today. I have something else in mind.”

I’m definitely curious, so I allow him to pullme to my feet. “What?”

Little wrinkles form at the corners of his eyes as he smiles. “You’ve been sitting all day. I think you need a bit of exercise before dinner. Remember when I offered to teach you some sword skills? I think it’s time for your first lesson.”

Before I can protest, he turns the volume up on the translation program and leads me to the center of the atrium, where the two wooden swords he and Varro fought with earlier await. He hands me one and I’m surprised by its heavy weight.

“Now,” Thrax begins, his voice taking on a patient, instructional tone, “the first thing to remember is your stance. It’s the foundation of everything else.”

As he guides me through the basics, I’m struck by what a natural teacher he is. His explanations are clear and concise, his deep voice soothing my nerves. He demonstrates each move with fluid grace, then watches carefully as I attempt to mimic him—badly, very badly, yet he never says a disparaging word.

“Good,” he encourages, as I manage a clumsy parry. “Now, try to feel the rhythm of the movement. It should flow, like water.”

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