Page 16 of Thawed Gladiator: Victor

“Yeah? And what else have you observed, oh wise one?”

Another ghost smile. “That your assistant trainer favors his left knee. That the young one with red hair has natural talent but lacks discipline. That you work too hard and rest too little.”

“Been watching me, have you?”

The words slip out before I can stop them. His eyes darken slightly, and a charge fills the air between us. “I observe everything of importance,Domina.”

The title sends an inappropriate shiver down my spine. “Maya,” I correct automatically, for the fiftieth time.

Afternoons bring different challenges. Teaching him to wrap his hands properly, trying to ignore how my fingers tingle every time they brush his skin. Showing him proper footwork for modern boxing, pretending not to notice how his shorts cling to powerful, bronze thighs.

“Keep your guard up,” I remind him during mitt work. He’s holding back, I can tell, but even at half-strength his punches make my arms ache through the pads. “Good. Now double up that jab.”

He complies, movement fluid as water. Then he does something—a subtle shift of weight, a twist of hip—and suddenly I’m looking at the ceiling, feet swept from under me so smoothly I didn’t even feel it coming.

“Apologies.” He offers a hand up, concern warring with what might be satisfaction in his expression. “Old habits.”

“Show me that again.” I dust myself off, trying to ignore how my skin burns where he touched me. “Slower this time.”

He demonstrates the move with excruciating patience, explaining how it works against an aggressive opponent. I find myself studying his face as much as the technique—the way his brow furrows in concentration, how his lips shape the Latin words that the device translates.

“You’re staring,Domina.”

Heat floods my cheeks. “I’m observing your technique.”

“Of course.” That sly smile again, the one that makes my stomach flip. “My technique requires such careful study?”

“Someone’s getting cocky.” I aim a playful jab at his ribs, which he easily deflects. “Maybe we should work on cardio instead.”

The treadmill proves entertaining, at least. His first attempt has him gripping the handrails as though he’s steering a chariot, expression shifting from suspicion to delight as he gets the hang of it.

“The ground moves while you remain in place,” he marvels during a water break. “Your world is full of wonders.”

The casual comment hits me like a punch to the solar plexus. Your world. The guilt resurfaces—he still doesn’t know the full truth. Still thinks he’s just in some strange foreign land. Still trusts me, despite my endless string of lies.

As Tony’s men show up for their daily check, I’m wondering how and when to tell him the truth. I force myself to push the guilt aside. We have bigger problems. Now we have less than five weeks to get him ready for whatever brutal underground match Tony has planned. Five weeks to figure a way out of this mess.

The apartment proves to be its own challenge. Close quarters, shared spaces, the constant awareness of each other. After that first night in the bed, he’s insisted on sleeping on the couch despite my protests, though I catch him wincing sometimes when his tall frame unfolds in the morning.

“This is ridiculous,” I tell him one night, finding him doing pushups beside the couch. “The bed’s plenty big enough to share.”

He freezes mid-rep, muscles tensing. “That would be improper,Domina.”

“Maya. More improper than you killing your back on that torture device?”

“The couch is perfectly adequate.” But something flickers in his eyes—interest? Temptation? “Your honor must be protected.”

I snort. “My honor’s just fine, thanks. But your training will suffer if you don’t get proper rest.”

“Then I shall endure.” He resumes his pushups, each movement precise despite fatigue. “As I have endured worse.”

The words trigger another wave of guilt. What has he endured? What memories haunt him during those nights I hear him pacing? But I can’t ask—not without revealing how much I already know about his past.

Days blur together. Training, watching, pretending everything’s normal while Tony’s men lurk and time ticks down.

“Your father is not here,” he observes one evening as we clean up after closing. “Did you expect him gone this long?”

“Tony’s still got him working some job in a place called Reno.” I try to keep my emotions schooled. Truth be told, I’m glad he’s not around—less chance for him to get into trouble. “Probably best for everyone.”

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