43. Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Three

L aura

I wake to the sound of howling wind, my eyes fluttering open to a world of white peeking around the edges of our window tarps. For a moment, I’m disoriented, wondering why I feel so warm and content despite the raging storm. Then I remember—Varro’s holding me close, his heavy, reassuring arm draped over my waist.

Yesterday floods back as I replay Varro’s emotional overwhelm, his raw vulnerability as he shared his deepest secrets, the way we held each other through the night. My heart swells, threatening to burst with the intensity of my feelings for this man.

I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up. Varro’s been through so much trauma, it’s a miracle he can function at all, let alone form meaningful connections. But as I lie here, listening to his steady breathing, I can’t help but wonder if maybe he’s beginning to heal.

The way he opened up to me, the trust he showed—it has to mean something, right? I close my eyes, offering up a quick prayer. Please, God, let him find peace. Let him be able to love and be loved without fear or intrusive memories .

I’m so lost in my thoughts that I almost miss the first ominous creaking sound. But when it comes again, louder this time, my eyes snap open.

“Varro,” I whisper urgently, shaking his shoulder. “Wake up. Something’s wrong.”

He’s instantly alert, years of gladiator training kicking in. “What is it?”

Before I can answer, there’s a deafening crack, and suddenly part of our roof caves in. Snow pours down, along with a blast of frigid air that steals my breath away. A mound of snow is piled where my bed once sat, with ice and sleet poring through a person-sized hole. The fire flickers in the hearth and most of our dry clothes are instantly soaked.

“Dear Lord! We need to fix this. Now.”

Varro’s already moving, pulling on his clothes and boots, grabbing for his coat. “I’ll climb up and check the damage. You grab the materials we need for repairs.”

I nod, scrambling to get dressed. As I step outside, the full force of the storm hits me. The wind is so strong it nearly knocks me off my feet, and the snow is so thick I can barely see a foot in front of me.

“By Hercules, this storm is raging!” Varro shouts over the wind.

Our coats are lightweight rain jackets with hoods. Our gloves are thin. We’ve added several layers underneath, but we don’t have the proper winter gear like thermal underwear, wool socks and hats, or insulated coats and pants. The salvage expedition was supposed to end in September.

Needing to focus, I tamp down a surge of fury. Whether it’s at Garrison for abandoning me or the storm itself doesn’t matter. We need to fix our roof.

Squinting against the onslaught, I make my way to my small tent. We set it in the woods behind the cottage and use it for storage. I gather rope, extra thatching bundles Varro made for just such an emergency, and the tarp we’ve been saving for emergencies.

As I look at the tarp, I’m hit with the realization that I’m an idiot. We should have used the tarp, or better yet, material from the larger tent, on the roof in the first place. When the weather clears, we’ll redo the roof, making it weather resistant. Right now, we have a hole to fix.

My fingers burn with cold through my thin archaeology gloves as I struggle with supplies.

A shout cuts through the howling wind, sending ice through my veins that has nothing to do with the temperature. “Laura! Hurry!”

My heart pounds as I race toward the cottage, arms full of the tarp and thatching bundles. As I round the corner, I see Varro on the roof, struggling against the gusting wind and snow.

He has the broom in his hand, pushing the accumulated snow off the roof, his feet on the ladder he made with branches and rope several weeks ago. The ladder is slowly sliding out from under him.

I drop the thatching, place the heavy canvas tarp on top, and grab the ladder. He leans over the roof to take his weight off the rung while I reposition it more securely under him.

With his feet stable on the branch cross piece, he shoves the last pile of snow over the edge of the roof and tosses the broom to the ground. He looks down at me with a grateful smile.

I reach to lift the corner of the tarp to get the bundle of thatch and realize there’s no way we’ll be able to secure dry grass in this storm. I grab the tarp and let the thatch blow away in the next gust.

Looking back up, I see Varro process this situation.

Stepping carefully down the ladder, he joins me on the ground. As he grabs the rope I realize he’s going to need to cut it. I dash back inside and snatch the sharp knife .

Returning to Varro, he’s reaching for the knife in my hand just as I’m passing it to him. We work together, silently and efficiently, a perfect team, cutting the cord and threading and securing the pieces through the grommets in the tarp.

“Can you toss me the thatching?” His hand is braced over his eyes while his hair flies about his face.

I barely hear him over the howling wind but know enough that he needs the thatching. I toss the first bundle to him, but it falls back onto the ground, bursting open. At this rate, I’m doing more harm than good.

“Can’t throw it!” I scream so loud it tears my throat. He can’t make trips back down to get supplies because he’s valiantly keeping the rest of the roof from caving in.

“I’m coming!” I cry out, dropping all but a few bundles of thatching, and then scrambling up the ladder propped against the side of the house.

The climb is treacherous, the rungs slick with ice and snow. I grit my teeth, forcing myself to focus on each step. When I reach the top, I can see Varro’s face, strained with effort and streaked with snow.

“Hold the tarp edge,” he shouts over the wind as he grips part of the tarp and knee-walks on the solid stone edge of the cottage wall. I nod, grip harder, and brace myself against the roof.

Together, we fight against the elements, securing the tarp over thatching bundles then tying it down with rope. The wind howls around us, threatening to tear the materials from our grasp at any moment. My hands are numb, my face stinging from the biting cold, but I barely notice.

Throughout, Varro goes up and down the ladder several times, grabbing more bundles and bringing them back up. Finally, the last knot is tied.

“We need to get down,” Varro yells, his voice barely audible over the storm. “It’s not perfect, but it’ll hold for now. ”

As we approach the ladder, Varro turns to me, his face etched with concern. “Let me carry you down,” he shouts over the howling wind. “It’s too dangerous. Icier than when you climbed up. You might slip.”

I shake my head, ready to argue, but the determination in his eyes gives me pause. He’s right. The ladder looks more treacherous than when I climbed up. The thought of falling terrifies me.

“I’ll be fine,” I insist, but Varro’s already moving toward me.

“Please, Laura.” His voice softer now. “I couldn’t bear it if something happened to you.”

The raw emotion in his words catches me off guard. I hesitate for a moment, then nod. “Okay, but don’t hurt yourself.” I jokingly mumble, “Even if you are ‘Varro the Invincible’,” assuming he won’t hear me, but he flashes me a killer smile that makes my heart contract.

Varro scoops me up and throws me over his shoulder. I can feel the strain in his muscles as he descends, each step careful and measured. The wind whips around us, pelting us with snow and ice, making the journey even more perilous.

About halfway down, Varro slips, but immediately gets his foot back onto the rung. I heard him grunt in pain, but don’t want us to waste a second in our descent by asking what’s wrong. He grits his teeth and continues, his grip on me never faltering.

When we finally reach the ground, relief washes over me. But as Varro sets me down, I see him wince, one hand reaching to soothe his lower back.

“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice shaking as we hurry inside.

He nods, rubbing his back. “I’m alright. Just strained something on the way down. Let’s get inside before we freeze.”

Once in the relative warmth of our cottage, we stand for a moment, dripping and shivering, just staring at each other. The back corner of the cottage is awash with melting snow and some of the Christmas decorations lie in a ruined heap. Without warning, Varro laughs. It’s a deep, rumbling sound that starts in his chest and builds until he’s bent over, hands on his knees.

I can’t help it—I join in. The absurdity of our situation, the adrenaline crash, it all comes out in slightly hysterical giggles. We laugh until we’re gasping for air, our gazes connected. He looks even more handsome than usual. Must be that smile.

As our laughter subsides, I notice Varro wincing again as he tries to straighten up.

“Hey, you sure you’re okay? That climb down looked painful, and now your back…”

He tries to shrug it off, but I can see the pain in his eyes. “It’s fine. Just a bit sore.”

“I don’t believe you for a second.” My voice is gentle as I guide him toward the bed. “Sit down. You just did most of the work in gale-force winds and carried me down a slippery ladder. I’m going to stoke the fire, hang up our wet clothes, heat yesterday’s stew, and when we’re done eating, I’m giving you a massage whether you like it or not.”

Varro hesitates, a flicker of something—fear? uncertainty?—passing over his face. I immediately regret my forceful tone. After everything he shared yesterday, I should know better than to order him around.

“I’m sorry.” I backtrack quickly. “That was forceful! I didn’t mean to pressure you. I just want to help, but only if you’re comfortable with it.”

He’s quiet for a moment, his dark eyes searching my face. Then, slowly, he nods. “Okay.” His voice sounds doubly soft after all that screaming. “Thank you.”

As I put wood on the fire, my heart races. Despite the chaos of the morning, or perhaps because of it, I feel closer to Varro than ever. His insistence on carrying me down the ladder, risking his own safety for mine, speaks volumes .

How can I share this cottage and not fall deeper in love with him with every passing day? I don’t know what will finally cause me to break, but as surely as I know it’s cold outside, I know I can’t keep my walls up forever.