Page 9 of Thawed Gladiator: Victor

More questions pile upon questions. Why does a woman of obvious wealth and training share ownership of a single gladiator? Why these strange surroundings instead of a properludus? Why do both she andDominusseem to hide deeper worries behind their eyes?

My body’s response to her presence troubles me more than the weakness in my limbs. Years of training taught me to control such reactions, to focus mind and flesh on survival rather than base desires. Yet something about her pierces those carefully maintained barriers.

The memory of her flushed cheeks and quickened breath stirs something I haven’t felt since before being thrown into theludus. Not mere physical attraction—I learned to ignore that early in my training. This feels deeper, more dangerous. Like standing at the edge of a canyon, knowing the fall could either kill you or teach you to fly.

The sound of her footsteps returning draws me from these unsettling thoughts. I straighten despite protesting muscles, maintaining the dignity Father taught me while showing the proper respect my position demands.

When she enters carrying folded fabric and some kind of footwear, her eyes still perform that fascinating dance—meeting mine, darting away, then drawn back as though by some invisible force. “I found some clothes and sandals with adjustable straps,” she says through the device. “They might be a little small, but…”

“Gratias, Domina.” I accept the offerings, noting how she turns away quickly when our fingers brush. The fabric feels strange, impossibly soft yet sturdy. Like everything else here, it defies my understanding.

“I’ll let you dress,” she says, retreating toward the door. But she pauses there, one hand on the frame. “When you’re ready… we should talk. About your circumstances. About… everything.”

Something in her tone catches my attention. Worry? Guilt? Before I can analyze it further, she’s gone, leaving me with more questions and a growing certainty that nothing here is what it seems.

Something within me—some core of strength forged in arena sand and tempered by survival—refuses to surrender to despair. Whoever these people are, whatever their intentions may be, I will observe, I will learn, and I will adapt.

The weight of Tyche’s coin against my chest reminds me that fate’s wheel never stops turning. If it has brought me to this strange place for a reason, I will discover that purpose. And I will face whatever comes next with the dignity of a warrior, not the fear of a slave.

I will learn the truth of this place, no matter the cost.

Chapter Eight

Maya

When I return to the bedroom, I fully intend to have “the talk” with him, but the words get stuck in my throat. His trusting gaze hits me like a hard right cross. How do I tell this man that everything he knows is gone? That two thousand years have passed, and he’s completely alone in a world he can’t possibly understand?

Franky told me how disoriented he gets with simple things like light switches and running water. The truth could shatter him completely, especially in his weakened state. And what if he panics? He’s strong enough to push past both me and my dad and bolt into the surrounding area. He could run in front of a car—or worse—somehow wind up in some corporate lab.

If things were different, I would tell him everything. He deserves the truth, but damn, there are so many moving parts to this equation. I need him stable, need him to trust me until I can figure out a safer situation for both of us. I’ll tell him soon, I promise myself. Just not now, not when everything’s so dangerous and uncertain.

“I want to assess your fitness,” I say instead, as he slowly rises from the bed.

“Of course,Domina,” he says without hesitation.

“Keep your core engaged.” The words come automatically as I guide him through basic strengthening exercises. But my usual professional detachment wavers each time my hands brush his skin. “Good. Now hold that plank for thirty seconds.”

His form is perfect despite his trembling muscles. I find myself mesmerized by the controlled power of his movements, the way strength and control blend in every motion.

When our eyes meet, the air between us charges with something that has nothing to do with training.Most fighters I’ve mentored would be grunting, complaining, or at least showing some strain on their face. This man remains stoic, his compelling eyes focused on some distant point as he maintains the position with a warrior’s discipline.

As a bead of sweat traces the perfect line of his jaw, I force myself to look away, to maintain some semblance of professional distance. The clothes I found barely fit him—the T-shirt strains across his broad shoulders, and my dad’s sweatpants, thankfully washed, stop well above his ankles.

Yet somehow, the too-small clothing only emphasizes his powerful build.

“Time,” I say, trying to ignore how my pulse jumps when he turns those intense hazel eyes toward me. “Let’s work on leg strength next. Simple bodyweight squats to start.”

The morning light streaming through the cabin windows catches on something metallic by his bedside—a pen Dad must have given him. Next to it lies a notebook filled with neat lines of what I assume is Latin prose. Not the crude scrawling you’d expect from a barely literate slave, but elegant, educated script.

The memory hits without warning—another morning, another training session, five years ago. Dad bursting into the gym, panic in his eyes. “Baby, we got a problem.”

Five hours before the biggest fight of my career. Years of work leading to a title shot, my one chance to break into the big leagues. But Dad had borrowed money from the wrong people. They bet a huge amount on my opponent and told him to make sure I didn’t win.

“You gotta take the fall,” he’d said, tears in his eyes. “They’ll kill me if you win.”

I argued, but it didn’t last long. When he mentioned that Tony Esposito was the thug holding his markers, I knew he wasn’t exaggerating about his life being on the line.

I lost that day, threw away my shot at the title. Lost my sponsor contracts, too. Not to mention my reputation. My career never really recovered, even though no one could prove I threw the fight on purpose. At least I could console myself about the reason why I did it—protect my father, even when he didn’t deserve it.

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