Page 7 of Thawed Gladiator: Victor

Maya

Early morning light filters through grimy cabin windows as I crack eggs into a bowl, trying to focus on the simple task instead of the impossible situation. Protein-heavy breakfast, just like I’d make for any fighter in training. Except this fighter thinks he’s in some alternate reality where my fatherownshim.

The eggs blur as exhaustion hits. No sleep, too much coffee, and a growing headache from trying to figure out how to handle this mess. Every plan I come up with feels like choosing between different kinds of wrong—dangerouswrong.

Scrambling the eggs with mechanical precision, I run through the options again. Can’t go to the police—not with a dead body and stolen classified tech involved. Can’t contact the gladiator program directly—they’d have Dad arrested before I could explain. As much as he deserves to wallow in the hell he’s created for himself, I just can’t go there yet. I can’t keep up this insane deception forever, but for right now, I’m going to bide my time and figure things out.

The bacon sizzles, its familiar scent barely penetrating my fog of worry. Dad’s passed out on the couch after talking nonstop since I arrived, revealing layers of trouble that make my stomach churn. Not just Keller’s death and the stolen gladiator, but loan sharks, underground fighting rings, and the whole pharmaceutical thing that sounds worse—and more powerful—than the mafia. It has him jumping at shadows.

Perhaps if I were smarter, I’d be jumping at shadows, too, or flooring the gas pedal on my way back to Vegas. It’s just that the ancient Roman behind the bedroom door has nobody on his side but me.

I plate the food with the same care I’d use for one of my fighters the morning before a big match. Whatever else is happening, the man in that bedroom needs proper nutrition to rebuild his strength. The thought of him believing my father owns him makes my jaw clench.

“Oh, one more thing…” Dad’s voice startles me as I reach for the bedroom door. He’s apparently not as asleep as I thought. “I might have told him you were coming. And that you’re, uh, also his master. Er…mistress.”

The plate nearly slips from my hands.“You what?”

“I panicked! He’s from another world, another time. And he’s big, Maya. And strong, getting stronger every day. I don’t want him to get any bright ideas to run or try to hurt you.”

Sure. This is all for my safety. My father, the altruist.

I’ve always made excuses for my father, always bailed him out, always given him the benefit of the doubt. That has to stop. Today.

“This is bullshit!” I spit the epithet at him, but Dad’s already snoring again, leaving me to deal with one more complication in this disaster of his making. Taking a deep breath, I open the bedroom door.

The sight stops me in my tracks.

The man is using a cane, moving with careful precision despite obvious weakness. All he’s wearing is what looks like a torn strip of a bed sheet as a loincloth.

He’s unaware of my presence. Even with his back turned, the sight is breathtaking. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, muscles flowing like a living sculpture beneath skin marked by old scars. His frame is massive—taller than any fighter I’ve trained—but there’s a fluid grace to his movements that speaks of years of disciplined training.

More scars than I can count trace patterns across his back, telling stories of battles and punishments. Yet they don’t diminish his beauty—if anything, they enhance it, like the patina on ancient bronze. His thighs are thick with muscle, though I imagine they’re slightly wasted from whatever freezing process brought him here. Even weakened, there’s raw power in every line of him.

When he turns, the view becomes even more impressive. His chest and abs look as though they’ve been carved from marble, every muscle defined yet harmonious.

Around his neck hangs a simple metal coin on a chain. It catches the light as he moves, revealing what looks like a wheel or disc with strange markings. The ancient medallion seems oddly intact compared to his scarred body—a relic from another time that somehow survived whatever he’s been through.

A dusting of dark hair travels down his chest, leading to… He sees me.

In one fluid motion, he drops to one knee, head bowed, eyes averted. “Domina.”

The word hits me like a physical blow, sending heat coursing through my body. I’ve trained hundreds of fighters, seen them in various states of undress, butnothinghas ever affected me like this. Something about the way he kneels—there’s dignity in it, power held in perfect control. His submission doesn’t diminish his strength; it amplifies it.

My body responds with an intensity that shocks me. Heat pools low in my belly, my pulse quickening as I struggle to maintain professional distance. This is wrong on so many levels. He thinks Iownhim. In addition to being frozen under the sea for two thousand years, he’s been stolen, lied to, and manipulated. My attraction is completely inappropriate.

Yet I can’t stop staring at his muscles shifting as he holds the position, or the elegant line of his neck as he keeps his head bowed. His chestnut hair curls slightly at the nape, and I have to clench my fingers around the plate to stop myself from reaching out to comb my fingers through it.

“Please,” I manage, my voice husky with desire. “Stand up. You shouldn’t kneel with your legs still weak.”

He rises smoothly despite his obvious fatigue, still keeping his eyes lowered. Even with the cane, his posture remains perfect. Up close, I can see more details—a small scar through his right eyebrow, the shadow of stubble along his jaw, lips that manage to look both stern and sensual.

“I brought breakfast,” I say, trying to sound normal despite the heat still coursing through me. “You need protein to rebuild your strength.”

“Gratias, Domina.” His voice is deep and slightly tinny coming through the earbud Dad told me to put in my ear. The translation device renders it as “Thank you, Mistress,” and another wave of inappropriate heat washes through me.

Setting the plate on the bedside table, I force myself to focus on practical matters. He needs clothes. Needs real medical attention. Needs the truth about where—and when—he is. But right now, he mostly needs to eat and regain his strength.

“Please, sit and eat.” I gesture to the bed, noticing how he waits for my permission before moving. “And we need to find you some clothes.”

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