11. Chapter Eleven

Chapter Eleven

L aura

I’ve snapped fully awake, feeling as though the dream was oddly real. Though it’s late and I’m tired and baffled, restless energy hums through my veins. I’m filled with an inexplicable urge to check on the iceman in the men’s tent. I’ve avoided the eerie sight since that first day, but tonight, an insistent tug in my gut propels me forward.

After leaving my bed, I shrug into my windbreaker and slip my feet into sturdy boots. I unzip the flap of my small, heated tent, the only respite from the bone-chilling cold. The compound centers around the large common area, with my one-person tent on one side and the larger men’s tent on the other.

After grabbing the solar-powered lantern, I step into the larger, central tent that connects to the two smaller tents like the hub of a wheel. My breath fogs in the frigid air.

The crunch of my footsteps echoes in the eerie stillness as I approach the men’s tent. Unzipping the entrance, I freeze, my heart stuttering in my chest. Water pools on the floor, glinting in the dim light. My gaze darts to the block of ice that once entombed the ancient man. It’s now fully melted, exposing his nude body that is strangely free of any decay .

I take a moment to fully assess him. Dark wavy hair to his shoulders, high sharp cheekbones, straight nose, full lips, and strong stubbled jaw. Although I would expect severe muscle wasting, they’re large and well-defined.

I count an eight-pack of stomach muscles. Dark hair arrows down to a flaccid uncircumcised penis that is resting in a bed of curling hair. Even at rest, it’s larger than any man I’ve seen. My gaze trails downward to trim hips and massive thighs and calves.

He’s at least six feet tall, which is far above average for a male of that era. The specimen I’m looking at, rather than being the shrunken form that has weathered two millennia, is the epitome of a Hollywood Roman gladiator.

How has his body survived for two thousand years? I was hoping to get him to a research facility that could answer that question.

Despair crashes over me in a suffocating wave. Even if I make it off this godforsaken island, he’ll no longer be the pristine specimen I’d hoped to present to the world. After years of research and months of meticulous planning, all I have is this. A human specimen who will soon be a rotten corpse, stinking up the compound and attracting vermin.

A faint noise snaps me from my spiraling thoughts. A whimper, barely audible above the wind’s mournful howl. Did just thinking of mice and vermin make one miraculously appear? Gross.

The next noise I hear sounds like a faint human moan—I edge closer to the iceman, my heart pounding against my ribs. It can’t be…

The man’s lips twitch, a shuddering breath escaping his blue-tinged mouth. Tremors wrack his body, his teeth chattering in a macabre dance.

My mind reels, struggling to process the impossible sight before me. This defies all logic, all reason. And yet, the evidence is undeniable—he’s alive .

Instinct takes over, propelling me into action. I dart to the men’s beds, gathering armfuls of musty sleeping bags. After draping them over his shivering form, I rub his arms, desperate to coax warmth into his frozen limbs.

But it’s not enough. He’s shaking even more violently. Perhaps he’s having a seizure. My mind is speeding, assessing, trying to think of anything I could do to tend to this man who should be dead, but isn’t.

Why is my mind throwing me the memory of a story my aunt told when I was a kid? Her husband, my uncle, had just received a bone marrow transplant and one of the medications they gave him caused him to shiver so violently he almost vibrated out of his hospital bed. When blankets didn’t work and the staff had yet to arrive, she shucked her clothes and climbed on top of him. My uncle always smiles when she tells that story, adding with a smile, “She saved my life.”

The memory of my aunt’s words echoes in my mind as I strip off my coat, shoes, and clothes with fumbling fingers. My breath hitches as I get under the covers and lower myself onto the frozen man’s body. His skin is like ice against my own, a shocking contrast to the heat coursing through my veins.

It’s only when I’m on top of him that I realize what a compromising position we’re in. We’re both completely naked. Not only is this an uncomfortable position, but I wonder if this is more harm than cure. His body, frozen for two thousand years, has to be fragile, and I’m no lightweight.

“It’s okay,” I lie, trying to make my voice calm and soothing.

Suddenly, his hand clamps around my throat, his grip like a vice. A guttural “No!” rips from his chest, his eyes flying open in a wild, terrified gaze.

Panic surges through me, my lungs burning for air. I claw at his fingers, my vision blurring at the edges. His large hand almost spans my entire neck and his fingers flex as I gag, dark spots appearing before my eyes. This can’t be how it ends—strangled by a man who should be long dead, my discovery lost forever .

As I pull in a trickle of air, I silently plead with the universe, with the goddess Fortuna, for a miracle. In this moment of terror, one thing becomes crystal clear—my fate is now inextricably tied to this Roman’s, a bond forged in ice and death.