Page 13 of Thawed Gladiator: Varro (Awakened From the Ice #1)
Chapter Thirteen
L aura
The moment he releases my throat with a sigh, I wonder if he’s died. That’s an odd thought. Wasn’t he already dead? As I occupy my mind with unanswerable questions, I feel his chest rise and fall. Okay, he’s alive. I can relax. After getting more comfortable, I resume my efforts to warm his skin.
My mind rebels at the situation. Two-thousand-year-old men do not reanimate. It’s just not possible. If it were, every fish and creature of the deep would just pop back to life after being frozen. Shaking my head, I let the worry go. I may not understand what’s going on, but one thing is certain—that man breathed. He said “Domina,” and he tried to choke the life out of me before he got too tired and weak to accomplish his goal.
Even as that is churning in the back of my mind, the front of my mind is calculating how to get him back to my tent, which is the only warm room in the compound. I scramble off of him and the skid, my bare feet slapping against the frigid floor as I hastily pull on my boots and discarded clothes. The chill seeps into my bones, but I push the discomfort aside, focusing on the task at hand .
First, I need to clear the water, dirt, and melted ice from the skid. I grab a mop and bucket from the common room, then work feverishly to soak up the icy liquid and push the dirt aside. My muscles ache with the effort, and I’m shaking from the cold, but I don’t stop until the skid is as clean as I can manage.
Next, I eye the outline of his muscular frame under the sleeping bags, my stomach twisting with apprehension. He’s all muscle and probably outweighs me by eighty pounds. I’m not sure I have the strength to maneuver him alone. But I have to try.
Suddenly, I have a revelation. This man wanted to kill me. No. He didn’t just want to kill me, he tried to kill me. How can I even think of putting him in my tiny room with me?
Just as soon as I have that thought, I realize that if he wants to kill me, he’ll do it whether he’s two feet away in my tiny tent or in the men’s tent across the compound from my room. There’s no way to be safe, not really. But even as that chilling thought settles in my mind, I know I can’t just leave him to die.
Fortuna’s words circle in my mind. “Be brave. Be compassionate. And above all, be open to the possibilities that lie ahead.”
Although I’ve never been given to flights of fancy, for some reason I take those words to heart.
I return to my tent and assess the space. There’s enough room for two beds with a few inches of space between them.
Despite Garrison being a notorious miser, he bought us all decent beds.
The bottom platform is like a rectangular canoe with thick Bungie-like cords crisscrossing the top. The self-inflating mattress lies on top of that, giving a cushy sleep experience. Because the bottom component is empty, it’s a great place to stash gear without cluttering my small living space.
I move my bed out of the tent to allow me more room to make up the second bed. Back in the men’s tent, I check on my Roman. He’s still cold but his heart is steady and so is his breathing. I haul a mattress and frame into my tent, then place an open sleeping bag on top. My little tent is now ready for its new occupant.
After allowing myself a two-minute break to devour a protein bar and guzzle some water, I give myself a quick pep talk. I’m going to try this, but I’m not stupid. I stride to Tony’s mechanical area and rummage by lantern light until I find some rope. If the iceman even hints that he’s going to hurt me again, I’ll tie him up so fast he won’t know what hit him.
Back in the men’s tent, I summon all my strength, tighten my grip on the rope attached to the front of the skid, and pull.
The skid inches forward slowly. Sweat beads on my brow, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps as I drag it across the floor, inch by painstaking inch.
It feels like an eternity before I travel through the large common area to reach the entrance to my tent. My arms tremble with exertion, but I don’t pause, knowing that if I stop now, I may not have the strength to start again.
After maneuvering the skid beside the bed, which is slightly lower than the skid, I gently roll the iceman onto the open sleeping bag, which I zip around his still, naked form.
After gently tucking another sleeping bag around him, I take his pulse. His heartbeat is slow, steady, and strong, but his skin is still cold and his lips still have a blue tinge.
Later, I’ll try to figure out how this man isn’t just a two-thousand-year-old rotting carcass. Right now, all I know is that he still needs my body heat.
I pause, trying to convince myself that this time when he awakens, he’ll know I mean him no harm and he won’t try to hurt me. After pushing the skid back into the main room, I retrieve my bed and butt it next to his, then zip the doorway closed. Finally, I pull on my flannel pajamas and settle in beside him under my sleeping bag, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest and the flicker of life beneath his eyelids. Is he dreaming ?
I tell myself I’m just doing what any decent human being would do, that I’m not actually risking my life for a man who may very well be a murderer.
But as the hours stretch on and exhaustion tugs at my limbs, I realize something else. Not once, in all the chaos and confusion, did I ever consider killing him to keep myself safe.
I’m a bookish, driven person who has always prioritized achievements over relationships. Even my parents stopped asking about my dating status or plans for children. If you asked my friends to describe me, “warm” would not be a word they would use.
The fact that it never crossed my mind to kill this man, even to potentially save my own life, makes me feel a bit better about myself. Besides, if I don’t find more food and fuel soon, my date of death will arrive sooner than I’d like. And now, if he survives, I’m going to have to find a way to feed him or he’ll revive only to die for real in a matter of weeks.