47. Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Seven

L aura

I push open the cottage door, planning to search for herbs to sweeten our daily tea. The unseasonably warm weather has melted most of the remnants of the snowstorm that happened days ago. I’m hoping to find some wild mint or perhaps even some early spring flowers. But the moment I step outside, all thoughts of foraging vanish.

Varro is in the yard, practicing with Invictus. Even though the air is cool, he’s bare from the waist up.

I freeze in the doorway, mesmerized. I’ve seen him do this before, months ago, but I haven’t watched since then. It felt too intrusive, too personal. But now, I can’t look away.

His movements are fluid, graceful, reminiscent of Tai Chi, but with a deadly edge. He flows from one pose to another, the sword an extension of his body as he slashes and stabs at invisible opponents. The late afternoon sun bathes him in golden light, highlighting the play of muscles beneath his bronzed skin.

I’ve seen videos of legendary dancers like Baryshnikov and Nijinsky, but they pale in comparison to Varro’s raw, masculine grace. Every movement is precise, controlled, yet somehow effortless. It’s a dance of power and beauty, of strength and finesse.

The air is thick with the scent of damp earth and new growth, mingled with the tang of the sea. But underneath it all, I catch whiffs of Varro’s unique sweet and salty sweat. It makes my heart race and my mouth go dry.

A bead of sweat trickles down his spine, catching the light as it traverses the map of scars on his back. They’re so much more pronounced in the daylight than they were when I gave him that massage. Each mark tells a story of survival, of battles fought and won, of pain administered for real or imagined transgressions. I find myself longing to trace them with my fingers, to learn their history through touch.

His muscles ripple with each movement, the corded strength of his arms evident as he wields the sword. The blade sings as it cuts through the air, a high, clear note that sends shivers down my spine. It’s a reminder of how deadly he can be, how much power is contained in that lithe form.

Varro lunges, the movement sharp and sudden. I gasp softly, my hand flying to my throat. He’s facing away from me, but I can picture his expression—intense, focused, lost in the rhythm of the exercise. His long hair, damp with sweat, whirls about his head. I have a sudden, overwhelming urge to brush it aside, to press my lips to his vulnerable nape.

As he continues his practice, my mind wanders to how much he’s changed since we first met. The man before me now is a far cry from the guarded, traumatized gladiator who emerged from the ice. He’s opened up to me, shared his deepest fears and painful memories. He’s learned to accept kindness without feeling the need to immediately repay it, understanding that not everything in life is a transaction.

I think back to the night of the massage, how he initially tensed at the scent of lavender but then allowed himself to relax, to enjoy the sensation without dissociating. It was a huge step forward, a sign of healing and trust that filled me with hope and pride .

Varro executes a complex series of moves, his body twisting and turning with catlike agility. The sight leaves me breathless, my pulse pounding in my throat. I’m acutely aware of every curve and plane of his body, every flex of muscle and sinew. The attraction I feel is so intense it’s almost painful—desire.

A warm breeze rustles through the nearby trees, carrying with it the promise of spring. Varro pauses in his routine, lifting his face to the wind. The tension in his shoulders eases, and I can almost see the weight of centuries lifting from him. In this moment, his profile looks younger, freer, unburdened by the ghosts of his past.

My heart swells with emotion. I want him. Not just physically, though that desire is palpable, burning hot, and insistent. I want all of him—his strength and his vulnerability, his pain and his joy. I want to be the one he turns to for comfort, the one who makes him laugh, the one who stands by his side through whatever life throws our way.

The realization hits me like a punch to the gut. I’m not only in love with him, I’m ready to take a chance on it. I’ve kept him at a distance not to punish him, but to protect my heart from a man who might not be able to love me back. But hasn’t he proven in a thousand little ways that he’s open to that now?

Varro continues his practice, oblivious to my epiphany. His movements grow faster, more intense. The muscles in his back and arms bunch and release, a mesmerizing display of power and control. Sweat glistens on his skin, tracing paths I long to follow with my lips.

I dig my nails into my palms, fighting the urge to go to him, to interrupt his routine with desperate kisses and roaming hands. The want, the need, is almost overwhelming.

Living here, away from civilization for months with just an ancient gladiator for company, has made me lose track of reality. But I’ve always been a realist. Deciding to have sex with him means the possibility of pregnancy. It wouldn’t happen for a while. I have an implant, but eventually it’s going to expire .

The idea of having a baby in these primitive conditions is terrifying, but at this point, I don’t think I can resist my desperate desire to feel his body on top of me. I burn for this man. How long can I ignore that?

Suddenly, Varro turns, his eyes locking with mine. I freeze, caught in his gaze like the prey who thinks it’s hidden but finds itself in the predator’s sights. Varro’s expression shifts, surprise melting into something darker, more primal. He must see the naked desire written all over my face, might even smell my blatant arousal on the breeze.

For a moment, we’re suspended in time, the air between us crackling with tension. Then, slowly, deliberately, Varro moves again. But this time, it’s different. His movements are more languorous, sinuous. Each pose emphasizes the power of his body, the flex of his muscles, the grace of his form.

It’s no longer practice. It’s a performance.

For me.

My breath catches in my throat as he executes a long, slow lunge, his muscles rippling under sun-kissed skin. He twirls the sword in a complex pattern, the blade flashing in the late afternoon light. It’s mesmerizing, dangerously beautiful.

Varro’s gaze never leaves mine as he moves through his routine. Each gesture, each flex and stretch, feels like a caress. He’s touching me without laying a hand on me, and I’m burning up from the inside out.

I know I should look away. I should turn on my heel, run to search for roots and leaves, anything to escape the intensity of this moment. But I can’t. I won’t.

Instead, I stand my ground, meeting his gaze head-on. I let him see everything I’m feeling, every ounce of desire, every spark of need. I’m done hiding, done pretending I don’t want him with every fiber of my being.

Varro’s movements grow more intense, more overtly sensual. He arches his back in a stretch that showcases every sculpted plane of his torso. Sweat glistens on his skin, and I have to clench my fists to keep from reaching out to touch him.

As he flows into his final pose, sword held high in two hands, our gazes lock once more. The message in his eyes is clear: an invitation, a challenge, a promise.

I take a deep breath, my decision made.

“That pose is lovely, Varro, but you possess a different sword. I’d like to see how you thrust and slash with that.”