Page 31 of Thawed Gladiator: Victor

I turn to look at her now, peaceful in sleep, as I remember a thousand small kindnesses. Her genuine concern for my recovery. Her careful attention to my comfort. The way she flinched each time I knelt, each time I played the role she helped maintain. Not amusement in her eyes then, but pain. Guilt.

The anger doesn’t vanish, but it transforms. Maya is as trapped as I am—by her father’s choices, by Tony’s threats, by the corruption that seems to transcend time. She tried to protect me the only way she knew how, to delay the pain of this revelation as long as possible, even as the deception ate at her conscience.

Still, the losses crash over me again. Did two thousand years make the stones of the Colosseum crumble? Was the great lighthouse swallowed by the sea? The temples and forums I once walked, could they possibly still stand?

An entire world lost to time while I slept in frozen darkness. Even if I survive this modern tangle of threats, I can never go home. Never walk those streets again. Never see those faces.

A sob builds in my chest, but I swallow it back. Maya stirs again, and I force my breathing to steady. Strange how even in my grief, my body responds to her presence. Despite everything—the lies, the lost years, the uncertain future—I want to wake her. Want to lose myself in her touch, her taste, the way she makes me feel anchored in this impossible time.

“The heart knows truth even when the mind rebels,” Father would say. And my heart recognizes something in Maya that transcends time and deception. Something worth protecting, worth forgiving, worth…

My hand hovers over her sleeping form. It would be so easy to wake her, to let passion drive away pain for a few precious hours. But Father taught better than that.

“A man’s choices show his true character,” his voice whispers in memory. “Especially the choices he makes when wounded.”

So I lie, still as a corpse, letting the storm of emotions wash through me. Grief for all I’ve lost. Anger at the deception. Fear of this strange new world. Desire for the woman sleeping beside me. Each feeling acknowledged, accepted, but not permitted to rule my actions.

Tomorrow, I will face this new reality with clear eyes. Will begin learning what I need to know about this age, no longer bound by the pretense of slavery. Will work with Maya to free us both from Tony’s web, but with only truth between us now.

But tonight, I let myself mourn. For my family, for my world, for two thousand years of history I’ll never know. For all the moments frozen in time while the world moved on without me.

At least I wasn’t the only one who awakened. All the men on theFortunasurvived two thousand years in ice. They must be going through the same shock and mourning I am. I can only hope I will see them all again.

Maya’s hand finds mine, her fingers intertwining with mine as though even in sleep, she senses my need for connection. The simple touch anchors me, reminds me that while I’ve lost everything I once knew, I’ve also found something unexpected. Something worth fighting for.

Just before sleep claims me, I press a gentle kiss to her temple. She sighs softly, curling closer, and for a moment the weight of two thousand years feels almost bearable. Almost.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Maya

Fatigue pulled me under into sleep, but it didn’t last long. I wake with a start, guilt gnawing at my conscience like a hungry wolf. The quiet darkness of my bedroom offers no peace, only space for regret to grow. Beside me, Damian’s steady breathing should be comforting, but it just reminds me of how deeply I’ve betrayed his trust.

He handled the truth about his displacement in time with incredible dignity, just like he handles everything. That makes it worse somehow. Even learning he’d lost his entire world, everyone he’d ever known but the crew on theFortuna, he still remained composed. Philosophical. Honorable.

While I’ve been nothing but a liar since the day we met.

I watch him in the dim light filtering through my window. The strong line of his jaw, softened slightly in sleep. The furrow between his brows that speaks of dreams I can only imagine. His lips moving silently, perhaps speaking to ghosts from two thousand years ago.

My chest aches with a feeling I’m not ready to name. It’s not just attraction anymore, though that’s certainly part of it. It’s the way he maintains his dignity despite impossible circumstances. The gentleness he shows to others even while believing himself enslaved. The wisdom that makes him seem brilliant and noble despite his circumstances.

My hand hovers over his shoulder, wanting to wake him, to try explaining everything I feel. To make him understand that the lies weren’t meant to hurt him, that somehow in protecting him I’ve grown to…

But he deserves better than midnight confessions born of guilt. Deserves better than a woman who helped perpetuate the myth of his enslavement. Deserves better thanme.

His breathing changes slightly—he’s awake and aware of my scrutiny. Of course he is. Years of gladiator training probably made him alert to the slightest change in his environment. Still, he waits, giving me the choice to either retreat or acknowledge this moment between us.

My fingers brush his shoulder, feather-light. “I’m sorry,” I whisper. “For everything.”

We both grab our translators, then he turns to face me, those compelling eyes now fully alert. His mouth moves as though he’s going to say something, but he pauses, allowing me to speak.

I choose each word with care. I read that a good apology includes owning and accepting responsibility for every action. Now’s as good a time as any.

“I’ve lied to you, hurt you, left you in the dark when you deserved to know the truth. I’ve spent weeks pretending it was all about protecting you. But the truth is, I had other paths—I just chose the easiest one.”

Sighing, I decide I might as well say it all. “I let you believe… I owned you. Perhaps that was the worst of it.” My voice catches. “Let me make it up to you. Let me show you how much I…”

“No.” His voice remains gentle but firm as he catches my hand before it can wander. “Not from guilt. Not from pity.”

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