Page 36 of Thawed Gladiator Thrax

I try again, focusing on making my movements smoother. Thrax nods approvingly, and warmth blooms in my chest at his praise.

As we continue, I fall deeper under his spell. The way his brow furrows in concentration as he demonstrates a complex maneuver, the gentleness in his touch as he corrects my form—it all adds to the growing attraction I feel for him.

“Now.” He moves behind me. “Let’s work on your thrust.”

His chest presses against my back as he reaches around me, his large hand enveloping mine on the sword’s hilt. The heat of his body seeps into me, and I have to suppress an aroused shiver.

“Like this,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear as he guides my arm through the motion. “Feel how the power comes from your core, not just your arm?”

I nod, not trusting my voice. The feeling of his body so close to mine, his strength surrounding me as he uses theword “core,” is intoxicating. As we move through the swing together, I can’t help but imagine those strong arms holding me in a very different context.

How long can we let this attraction simmer? The thought races through my mind as we repeat the motion. Each touch, each gentle instruction, feels charged with unspoken desire.

Finally, overwhelmed by the proximity and the building tension, I let the wooden sword slip from my grasp. It falls to the grass with a soft thud as I turn within the circle of Thrax’s warm, muscular arms.

Looking up into his dark eyes, I see my own desire reflected back at me. Without thinking, I reach up, cupping his face in my palms. His stubble is rough against my skin, a delicious contrast to my memory of how soft his lips are.

“Thrax,” I whisper, my heart pounding so loudly I’m sure he must hear it. “Will you… will you come to my room after dinner tonight?”

The invitation hangs in the air between us, loaded with thinly veiled promises. As I wait for his response, I hold my breath, hoping I haven’t misread the situation, hoping he wants this as much as I do.

Chapter Thirty-One

Thrax

The cafeteria is filled with the clatter and conversation of the hospital staff, but I barely notice. My plate sits in front of me, untouched, the aroma of roasted chicken and vegetables failing to tempt me. I’m a big man with a healthy hunger, but not tonight. Tonight, my stomach churns with a different kind of hunger.

Varro and Laura’s voices wash over me as they discuss something about current events. I should be listening; after all, this is my world now. But my mind keeps replaying Skye’s words from earlier: “Will you come to my room after dinner tonight?”

What did she mean by that? Am I reading too much into her invitation? Perhaps she simply wants to show me that Firefly TV program she keeps mentioning. My gaze is drawn to Skye, then quickly darts away. Even looking at her feels dangerous right now, like I might burst into flames from my lust.

The server who brings water refills catches my attention—not because of her movements, but because of the intricate designs that wind up her forearms. The ink tells a story in swirling patterns and vibrant colors, so different from the crude marks that identified some gladiators in my time. Those were morelike brands than art, marks of ownership rather than personal choice.

“You like them?” she asks, noticing my stare.

I nod, searching for the right words. “They’re… beautiful. The colors, the way they flow. Different from the marks in my time—I mean, in my old country.”

She smiles, pleased. “Thanks! Each one means something special to me. That’s the best part about tattoos—you can choose what story you want to tell.”

Choose what story to tell. The idea plants in my mind like a seed, though I’m not sure why.

“Thrax?” Varro’s voice cuts through my thoughts. “Are you feeling alright? You’ve hardly touched your food.”

Forcing a smile, I nod. “I’m fine. Just… not very hungry.”

Laura raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment. Instead, she launches into a detailed description of properties they’ve been looking at in Missouri. I try to focus on her words, grateful for the distraction.

Skye shifts beside me, her thigh brushing against mine. The contact, though innocent, sends a jolt through my body. I grip the edge of the table, willing myself to stay calm.

As Varro and Laura continue their discussion, I feel Skye’s hand slip under the table. Her fingers find mine, intertwining with a gentle squeeze. My breath catches in my throat. How can such a simple touch feel so intimate?

Her hand leaves mine, and for a moment, I feel the loss. But then her palm lands on my thigh, just above my knee. My muscles tense under her touch. Slowly, torturously, her hand slides upward.

Skye, meanwhile, seems perfectly at ease. She nods along with Laura’s words, even offering insights about potential renovations and improvements to the properties. The way she followsthe conversation while unraveling my self-control is as impressive as Minerva spinning threads on her loom.

My heart thunders in my chest, so loudly that I’m certain everyone at the table must hear it. Possibly, everyone in the dining room, the kitchen, and maybe passengers in the airplanes overhead are wondering where the loud thump, thump, thump is coming from. Blood rushes in my ears, drowning out the surrounding conversation. How can Skye appear so calm, so engaged in the discussion, when her touch is setting my body aflame?

“So, what do you think, Thrax?” Laura’s question barely registers.

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