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Chapter Fourteen

M aya

Marco arrives at ten, then idles his black SUV in the alley behind my gym. His expression says he’d rather be anywhere else than babysitting a shopping trip.

“One hour,” he reminds me, adjusting his mirror to keep an eye on Victor in the backseat. “Boss wants you at Rexon’s Department Store on Charleston. Nowhere else.”

The drive gives me my first chance to watch Victor’s reactions to the twenty-first century. His face remains carefully neutral, but his eyes miss nothing—darting from traffic signals to electronic billboards to the endless stream of cars.

We’re nowhere near downtown Vegas, but when we pass a digital mobile billboard with a scantily clad showgirl giving a sexy hip thrust, the poor gladiator’s eyes almost bug out of his face. To his credit, he says nothing.

“Almost there.” The translation device renders my words into Latin, and I wonder what he makes of all this. From what little I know of ancient Rome, even their busiest streets would seem quiet compared to morning traffic on Charleston.

Rexons’ automatic doors make him pause for just a fraction of a second—so brief anyone else would miss it. But I’ve spent weeks watching him, learning to read the tiny tells beneath his warrior’s composure.

“This way.” I guide him toward men’s athletic wear even as he’s still looking over his shoulder at the modern marvel of magically sliding doors. Marco trails at a distance, managing to be both professional and menacing. “You need proper training gear.”

Victor moves through the racks, his eyes widening at the rows of pre-made clothing. His eyebrows almost shoot into his hairline when I hand him a moisture-wicking shirt.

“This material,” he murmurs so that only I can hear him, “it’s like nothing I’ve known.” The wonder in his voice reminds me of how even the most mundane items hold magic to him. His warrior’s hands—capable of such violence—display remarkable gentleness as he selects each item, treating modern athletic wear with the reverence others might reserve for fine silk.

“These will be better for training,” I explain, selecting compression gear and performance wear in his size. “More comfortable than what you’ve been using.”

He accepts each item with that grave courtesy that makes my heart ache. Even shopping, he maintains the perfect posture of a trained fighter. But there’s something else in his bearing too—an intelligence that takes in every detail, analyzing and adapting.

“You need to try them on. Make sure everything… fits properly.” My voice catches slightly as I picture him naked behind the nearby louvered door.

He reaches to his waistband and pulls down his sweats as he bends forward. The position would moon anyone behind him. Luckily, Marco is staring at a pretty young shopper, and the only person to catch the show is me. Dear god, the man’s body is perfection. I’m only human. I stare for a moment longer than is necessary.

“I forgot that you told me you used to fight nude in front of thousands. Here, it’s not… acceptable. You can use the try-on room.” I point to the dressing room as he quickly pulls the sweats back up.

Marco positions himself by the main aisle, close enough to watch but far enough to give the illusion of privacy. As I hand Victor the pile of clothes, I try not to think about him changing just a few feet away. I no longer need to use my imagination for most of his anatomy as I picture him pulling off his clothes. I was just treated to the most perfect, masculine backside that’s roamed the Earth since the birth of Christ.

When he emerges in proper workout gear, my carefully professional demeanor slips even further. The compression shirt shows every sculpted muscle, while the shorts reveal powerful legs marked with a few old scars. The one part of his anatomy I haven’t been treated to is now outlined in damn near perfect detail under the shorts. From the looks of things, he’s packing a monster under there.

I swallow, use all my self-control to force my gaze north, and watch as he moves experimentally, testing the modern fabrics’ stretch.

“Better?” I manage to ask.

“The material is… strange.” His Latin comes through the translator monotone, but it’s clear he’s slightly puzzled. “But yes, better for movement.”

We gather enough clothes for a week of training, plus some casual wear and footwear. I’m not sure whether he thinks modern-day sneakers are better than sliced bread or if he’d rather be wearing sandals. I don’t think he’s decided.

At the checkout, I catch him studying the register’s digital display with barely concealed fascination.

“Almost done,” I say, more to myself than him. We’ve gotten through this without incident, without drawing suspicion. Just a normal shopping trip for normal training gear. Nothing to suggest my fighter is actually a two-thousand-year-old gladiator seeing modern commerce for the first time.

Back in the SUV, Victor holds the shopping bags carefully in his lap. His expression has returned to its usual stoic calm, but something has shifted. Each new experience in this world subtly changes him—not breaking his warrior’s discipline, but adapting it to new circumstances.

“In two days, you’ll need everything you’ve learned,” I say as Marco navigates through traffic. “Rico’s fighters won’t show mercy just because you’re new.”

“Mercy is not about receiving,” he replies quietly. “It is about choosing to give even when others would not.”

The words hit me with the force of a punch. Here we are, preparing him for underground fights, lying about his situation, and he’s teaching lessons about mercy. What am I becoming?

But there’s no time for guilt, and no way I’m going to rock his world before the upcoming fight. The day after tomorrow, he faces Empire’s best fighters. I have two days to somehow prepare him for modern combat without revealing too much about his own past.

And somewhere in the midst of it all, I have to figure out how to protect him from everyone who wants to exploit him—including, perhaps, myself.