Page 8

Chapter Eight

M aya

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.

The crack of my knuckles against my palm brings me back. The gladiator pauses mid-movement, head tilted slightly. “ Domina?”

“Keep going,” I say, but something in my voice must betray my emotions. He completes the squat but stays down, one knee bent in that oddly graceful way of his.

“You are troubled.”

It’s not a question. His insight catches me off guard, along with the genuine concern in his tone. Not the practiced sympathy of someone trying to please their “owner,” but real empathy.

“I never asked your name,” I say, realizing how rude I’ve been.

“Victor.” The name rolls off his tongue with quiet dignity, yet a tiny muscle leaps in his jaw.

“That needed no translation,” I observe. “It means victory?”

Something flickers in his eyes—a shadow of old pain quickly masked. “ Si , Domina.”

Since I obviously hit a nerve, I say, “Focus on your exercises,” more sharply than intended. But he doesn’t flinch, doesn’t cower like someone accustomed to abuse. Instead, he holds my gaze for a moment longer, something like understanding passing between us before he returns to his squats.

“Your form is good,” I say, though I’ve been studiously avoiding staring at his perfect body. “But you’re favoring your left leg slightly. Here—” Without thinking, I place my hand on his thigh to adjust his stance.

The muscle tenses under my palm. Heat radiates through the thin fabric of the sweats. Our gazes meet, and for a moment the air seems to crackle between us.

I step back quickly, nearly tripping over my own feet. “That’s enough for now. You should rest.”

“As you wish, Domina .” But there’s something in his voice, something that makes my skin tingle. When I dare to look at him again, I catch the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, but an acknowledgment of… whatever this is between us.

“I’ll bring you some water,” I say, fleeing to the kitchen before I can do something stupid like touch him again.

My hands shake as I fill a glass from the tap. This is so wrong. He thinks I own him. He’s been stolen from his time, his world. He’s being lied to and manipulated. My attraction to him isn’t just inappropriate—it’s taking advantage.

But when I return to the bedroom, he’s sitting on his bed, back straight as a yardstick while reading through his writings with such focused intensity it makes my chest ache. There’s a nobility to him that no amount of deception can diminish. An intelligence that shines through despite the language barrier and strange circumstances.

He accepts the water with that same grave courtesy, but his fingers brush mine as he takes the glass. The contact sends electricity dancing up my arm.

“ Gratias,” he says softly. Even without the translation device, I understand perfectly.

I need to tell him the truth. Need to find a way to fix this mess that doesn’t end with everyone in prison… or worse. I also need to stop noticing how his damp shirt clings to his chest or the way his eyes, now more green than gray, seem to see right through my defenses.

But for now, all I can do is nod and retreat to a safe distance, adding one more thing to the growing list of ways I’m failing both him and myself.