44. Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Four

M arcus Fabius Varro

“Sit down, you stubborn gladiator,” Laura chides, pointing to the camp chair I’ve claimed as mine. “I’ve got this under control.”

I hesitate, unwilling to sit here and watch her work.

“At least let me help,” I offer, reaching for the broom.

She swats my hand away playfully. “Nope. You just saved our roof from collapsing. You’re the one who hunts our food, thatches the roof, collects most of the firewood, and a thousand other things I have no idea how to do because they didn’t teach that in the modern world. I can do this. So sit. Consider this your reward.”

Reluctantly, I perch on the chair, feeling strangely useless. No one has ever done this for me before—taken care of me without expecting anything in return. It’s… unsettling, and makes me vaguely suspicious, though I know I shouldn’t be.

As Laura works, humming a Saturnalia song softly to herself as she sweeps the mess of thatching out the door and mops the melted snow, I find my gaze drawn to her. She had us strip off our wet clothing and hung it up to dry from the rope we’ve strung across the cottage .

Now, all she’s wearing is her t-shirt and the pants that hug her like a second skin, reminding me she’s all woman—and off limits. The firelight dances across her face, highlighting the determined set of her jaw, the gentle curve of her cheek, and making the seaglass in the necklace I made her sparkle like diamonds. She’s beautiful. Not just physically, but in the way she moves, the way she cares.

“Food’s ready,” she announces, changing the direction of my thoughts. She hands me a steaming bowl of stew, our fingers brushing briefly. The contact sends a jolt through me, and I quickly look away as she turns again and places six smooth rocks close to the fire.

We eat in comfortable silence, the only sounds are the crackling of the fire and the howling wind outside. When we’re done, Laura takes our bowls and sets them aside.

“Alright,” she says, rubbing her hands together. “Time for that massage. Can I ask you to take off your shirt and lie on your stomach?”

I’m a grown man, a gladiator, but I have no control over my body as I freeze, my heart suddenly racing. “I don’t think—”

“Trust me,” she says softly. “You need this. Your muscles must be killing you after all that work and then wrenching your back as you carried me down. Look at you, so chivalrous.”

I don’t know that word, but by her tone, I imagine it’s a compliment. It’s her attempt to soothe me.

Swallowing hard, I nod, strip off my shirt, and lie face down on the bed. I hear Laura moving around, and then the mattress dips as she straddles my hips. The position is intimate and vulnerable. I have to fight the urge to throw her off.

Then I smell it. Lavender and olive oil. The scent hits me like a physical blow, and suddenly I’m not here anymore. I’m back in Rome, pinned beneath Domina, her cruel laughter ringing in my ears as she…

“Varro? Varro! ”

Laura’s voice cuts through the fog, and I realize I’m panting through clamped teeth, my body drenched in sweat. She’s no longer on top of me, but crouched beside the bed, her face etched with concern.

“What’s wrong?” Her tone is gentle, as though she’s speaking to a child. “Talk to me.”

“Nothing,” I grunt, trying to sit up. “I’m fine.”

But Laura doesn’t believe me. She places a gentle hand on my arm, her touch bringing me back to the present. “It’s okay,” she murmurs. “You can tell me.”

I close my eyes, wrestling with myself. Part of me wants to brush it off, to maintain the walls I’ve built over the years. But a larger part, the part that’s been growing since I met Laura, wants to let her in. Besides, after what I told her yesterday, she knows most of it already.

“The lavender,” I finally manage. “It… it reminds me of Domina. Of things I’d rather forget.”

Understanding dawns on Laura’s face. “Oh, Varro,” she breathes. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“How could you?” I attempt a weak smile.

We sit in silence for a moment, Laura’s hand still on my arm. Then she speaks. “We don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. Or, I can use cooking oil. But if you’re willing to try… maybe we can connect something new with that scent. Something better.”

I consider her words. The idea of facing this fear, of potentially overcoming it, is both terrifying and oddly appealing.

“How?” I ask.

“We’ll go slow,” Laura explains. “I’ll start with just my hands, no lotion. If at any point you want me to stop, just say the safe word. Okay?”

I turn my head so that I can see her. “What’s a safe word?”

“Saying a safe word means that I immediately stop what I’m doing, no matter what. Any suggestions?”

“ Fides .”

Laura smiles. “The goddess of trust and faith. I like it.”

I nod, settling back on top of the sleeping bag. Laura positions herself next to me this time, not on top, and works on my shoulders. Her touch is firm but gentle, kneading out the knots of tension.

“Tell me your plans about what we’ll do come spring.” Her voice is calm, soothing.

It strikes me that she’s acknowledging what I consider to be the truth—that we’ll be here in spring and summer and fall and the next year and the next year after that. It must kill her a little inside to admit it. If she can make these changes in her thinking, I’m glad I’m trying new things too.

So I tell her about the wood I’ve been collecting to make a small boat to find different fish in waters farther from the shore, making sure not to get her hopes up. Any boat I could craft would never get her to the mainland which she tells me is hundreds of mille passus away.

“I want to make a coop, to capture some native birds, breed them, so my roommate can dine on something other than fish and rabbit.”

“How thoughtful.” She leans low to press her elbow into that spot on my back that is cramping. The pressure both hurts and feels divine.

Laura is bright, keeping my attention on her and my muscles and away from my memories. She’s such a good woman.

Gradually, I relax under her tender touch. The fear recedes, replaced by a warmth that spreads through my body. Laura’s hands move lower, working out the kinks in my back, and I have to bite back a groan of pleasure .

“How are you doing? You still with me?” she asks softly.

“Doing good,” I mumble into the pillow. “Really good.”

“Think you’re ready to try the lotion? Just a little?” Her voice is so calm, so reassuring. “Or we don’t have to… we never have to.”

I tense for a moment, but then force myself to breathe. “Okay. Let’s try.”

Laura uncaps the bottle, and I brace myself for the scent. It’s there, but it’s different somehow. Softer, less overwhelming. Maybe because this time, it’s mixed with Laura’s own scent—a combination of sea salt and clean snow.

She works the lotion into my skin, her movements slow and deliberate. There’s nothing sexual about it, but it’s undeniably intimate. Each stroke of her hands feels like it’s saying something her words can’t—that I’m safe, that I’m cared for, that I matter. And then I feel a small area of pure warmth being pressed into my shoulder blades and down the column of my spine.

“We call this a hot stone massage but, really, this is a warm pebble from the beach massage.”

I let out a snort of laughter that surprises me and for the first time in as long as I can remember, I allow myself to simply enjoy the scent without drifting back in time. I’m fully present, fully aware of Laura’s touch, of the warmth of the fire, of the softness of the bed beneath me.

“You’re doing great,” Laura murmurs, her fingers working out a particularly stubborn knot in my biceps.

I hum in response, too relaxed to form words. As she continues the massage, alternating between her fingers and using the stones warmed by the fire, my thoughts drift, not to the past, but to the future. To more nights like this, more moments of peace and connection.

It’s a dangerous thought, one that would have terrified me not so long ago. But now, as Laura’s thumbs move in soothing circles across my back, I find I don’t want to push it away. Instead, I let it settle over me like a warm blanket, comforting and full of possibility.

When Laura finally finishes, I feel boneless, completely at ease. She kneels next to me so her concerned eyes can search my face as she asks, “How do you feel?” She cocks her head, giving me her full attention.

I take a moment to consider the question. The truth strikes me like a thunderbolt because it’s such an odd feeling.

“Like a conqueror, Laura. Like I climbed the Pyrenees or vanquished in the arena. That was a match not with a gladiator, but with myself. And I emerged the victor.”

Laura smiles, and it’s like the sun coming out after a storm. “You deserve that, Varro. You deserve the very best life.”

I doubt she knows that I’m coming to believe my best life is here with her, but she doesn’t want to hear that, so I roll over as I ask lazily, “Do you want to be the big spoon tonight?”

As she chuckles and slides behind me, I bask in the newfound triumph that lavender no longer smells like fear and pain. Instead, it smells like Laura, like comfort and safety and home.

It’s a small change, but an important one. A step forward on a path I never thought I’d walk. And as I drift off to sleep, Laura’s steady breathing behind me, I find myself looking forward to where that path might lead.