With lightning speed, she spun around to face them, her sword arm blocking the
wooden
gladius
one of them hurled through the air at her head. The blade scraped her skin as she deflected it, the nick of pain barely noticeable.
With her own short sword raised, and her shield in her hand she bounded through the air, Primus her sole target, for he was the only one of them without a
gladius
within his hand.
What came after Aurora would barely remember. In that moment she was not Aurora, the woman who’d escaped a life of blood in the arena, a life in chains as a slave to the perversions of bloodthirsty men and their sordid lusts. In that moment she was Aurora who’d fought her way through the ranks to become champion, she was the woman who’d endured the pain of the lash more than any other for her defiance, her insolence.
Looking at Primus and the cruelty in his eyes, she saw only the abuse she’d suffered at the hands of others who were equally cruel, equally perverse. Aurora swung her shield, striking him against the face with the full force of her strength. He crumpled to the ground, and she released her sword and shield to grasp his
tunica
, her other hand balling into a fist to slam into his jaw.
She did not know how long she struck him, or how many times.
She did not hear Cyrus calling her name in the distance.
She did not even feel the wetness upon her cheeks.
The only thing that stopped her was the stinging slap of the whip against her back.
Bone chilling pain shot through her with the first strike. It could have been worse. She’d been whipped enough times to know— he could have struck her much harder.
Aurora twisted around.
When the next strike came, she lifted her arm, catching the end of the whip so that it curled around her wrist.
Cyrus pulled on the whip, and she pulled back, their gazes clashing, locking.
“Release it, Aurora.”
Her eyes blazed, along with her temper. He recognized the defiance upon her face so he said again, his voice a deadly whisper. “Release the whip.”
The hard, cold edge of his tone sliced through her, wrenching her from the red haze of fury she’d been blinded by just moments ago.
It all rushed back to her then, and she turned to see Primus sprawled atop the ground, his head at an unnatural angle, a physician already tending to him.
Every gaze in the arena rested upon her—and most glittered with a combination of astonishment and respect. A few appeared as if they were prepared to murder her where she stood. Those few were the same men who’d huddled beside Primus laughing at her.
She pierced them with narrowed eyes, and they shrank back, the cowards that they were. Had they been true men, and genuine friends, they would have pulled her off of Primus, instead of standing witness to his beating.
A gentle tug against her wrist reminded her she still held the other end of the whip. She twisted her arm until it fell to the ground.
Cyrus called an end to their day of training at the same time two of the guards carried Primus’ limp body from the arena to the infirmary.
She watched until they disappeared from sight. When the rest of the fighters began to file past her, she turned to leave as well.
The sound of her name echoing in the now empty space halted her where she stood.
She glanced at him from over her shoulder, her look scathing before she continued on her way.
He called her name again, but she ignored him, trudging ahead, even as she acknowledged her actions were foolish. To defy her
doctoris
was not wise for she could be severely punished, yet she could not talk to Cyrus. She could barely look at him after what he’d done.
All she wished to do was retreat to her quarters before the tears stinging her eyes slipped down her cheeks and she cried once again.
“I said
stop,
Aurora.”
Cyrus’ voice thundered with authority, and she did not mistake the caged fury simmering just beneath the surface.
She stopped, spinning around, a small gasp tumbling from her lips when she realized he stood less than an arm’s length away, much closer than she’d imagined.
“What is it?” she snapped, recovering herself. “What is it you wish to say to me that your lash cannot say for you?”
He winced, though his eyes shimmered with anger, the same emotion surely present in her own.
“I had no choice—”
Her laugh was bitter. “You had no choice? You are a big, powerful gladiator. Could you not have pulled me off of him? Could you not have commanded one of your men to do the same?”
Her voice shook, but she blinked her eyes, refusing to cry before this man—
because
of this man,
because
of what he’d done, what she realized he’d had to do.
“You were crazed Aurora, as if you were not yourself. I called your name a dozen times. I could not be certain you would not turn your rage upon my men, and I was too far away to stop you before you killed him.”
His words deflated her and she hung her head in shame. “Will he be alright?”
“I do not know,” Cyrus said quietly and his expression softened. “Do you wish to tell me what happened back there?”
When she shook her head, he let out a long, weary breath. “I realize Primus, along with many of the recruits are difficult, but you cannot beat them to death. You are lucky Claudius encourages such savagery and will not punish you, but you may have made things worse for yourself here.”
“I know,” she mumbled, because that was all she could say. He did not need to tell her that with her moment of rage, she had made herself a target for retaliation.
She turned to leave, but stopped when Cyrus’ fingers brushed the skin along her arm where she’d caught his whip. She stared at the long, tanned length of his fingers gently stroking her marked flesh.
A restless spark of heat ignited in her belly, and she bit back a gasp, her gaze snapping to his face. She swallowed deeply as his fingers trailed the length of her arm, across her shoulder.
When he cupped her cheek with his callused palm, a deep sexual hunger stirred to life at the core of her. He stared at her beneath heavy lidded eyes, and she knew he felt it—this pulsing, throbbing awareness between them.
Her lips parted, and her chest heaved when he leaned in closer, while her lungs burned with the raw, male scent of him, mixed with sweat and desire. When his thumb began to brush across her lips, she could no longer stem all of the sensations coursing through her. She moaned, a slight breathy sound that floated between them, drawing him ever closer.
“I am sorry,” he said softly, hoarsely. “I would never wish to strike you, but I cannot treat you any differently than the rest of the fighters.”
He was close, so close that if she lifted on her toes, and he leaned in, their lips would touch in a kiss she had no doubt would melt her bones. Instead of doing just that, she pulled away, and his hand dropped to his side curling into a ball.
Aurora did not care that he was sorry. He would never know how deeply he’d just wounded her, not physically, but in a place where she’d sworn no one could touch her ever again, a place lodged so deep inside of her that she’d not even known it still existed until she’d returned to this life. With that one strike, as deserved as it had been, Cyrus had dredged up painful memories she’d long buried, but would never forget.
His sigh crackled through the silence between them. “Maybe one day you shall trust me enough to share these pieces of your past.”
Aurora did not know why that upset her—that this man desired an intimate knowledge of her that he himself would not give. So she said the only thing that came to mind, the one thing that had burned in her thoughts from the moment she’d met him, and glimpsed the arrogance in his eyes.
“How is it you came to be a slave of Rome when you were once a free man of Thrace?”
She startled him with her question, and his eyes rounded then narrowed, his face suddenly devoid of any of the emotion she’d witnessed just moments before.
“That is none of your business.”
“Just as my past is none of
your
business.” She turned to leave. “You are my
doctoris,
and I am your gladiator.”
He looked at her crossly. “And that precludes us from a friendship as well?”
“I do not wish to be your friend.” That was both truth and lie. She feared the passion steadily growing between them with each passing hour. Cyrus was a distraction from her duty. She could ill afford his constant presence in her life because when she closed her eyes, she saw him, his naked body pressed to hers. No, she did not wish to be his friend, she wished for something more. Something she could never have with him. And that she wished it was the very problem.
“I know what you are about,” he said when she began to walk away. He thought she was still angry. He thought she was hurling cruel words at him for what he’d done—words she did not mean.
He was wrong.
Aurora stopped to regard him from over her shoulder, her hair brushing against her back. As she looked at him, the whip still clenched in his grasp, she was reminded that she could not afford to get close to anyone, that she could trust no one. She was not there to befriend a single person, she was there to fulfill a single purpose.
This time when she spoke, her tone was flat. “Trust me when I say you do not.”
He had
no
idea what she was about at all.
Chapter Four
Cyrus stared after Aurora, his gaze slipping to her rounded hips, which swayed gently, rustling her
tunica
with every step she took. He bit back a groan as she sauntered away.
It was a groan of frustration—
mostly
physical, but not entirely.
For the briefest of moments, his mind conjured another woman.
Beautiful, sweet, innocent Sorina with eyes as crystal blue as the Aegean, hair as golden as warm honey. The vision was fleeting. For it had not been Sorina’s face he’d imagined last eve as he’d held his flesh within his palm, stroking himself until he’d spurted his seed against his woolen pallet.
Wild topaz eyes.
Silken copper skin.
A mass of untamed, unruly, russet locks.
He’d thought of Aurora, only Aurora as he’d found release yestereve, alone in his quarters, and it shamed him. He did not want to want her, but neither could he seem to cease the desires of his body. He had never wanted a woman so fiercely, not even Sorina,
especially
not Sorina. That revelation shamed him as well.
Aurora was not a simple, uncomplicated woman. She was haunted by demons, by a bitter pain that threatened her soul. She carried secrets, many of them, her eyes were shadowed by nothing but secrets. What he’d witnessed earlier had been a purging, a violent, unrestrained purging of the soul. And still those same demons of the past would haunt her. He imagined she would never escape them.
Cyrus’ heart stuttered, his gut fisting into knots as he trailed Aurora with his gaze—her head, her back, even her gate. Stiff and proud.
Whatever Primus had said to her, done to her, had reopened a wound from her past, but it was Cyrus who’d wounded her pride— he’d stripped her of a piece of it when he’d struck her with his lash. Never mind, he’d had no choice—it did not matter, not to her, not even to him.
He ran a hand down his face in frustration. He desired this woman, a woman he barely knew, with a fierceness that frightened him, that threatened every principle he had, including his very resolve.
He started to leave the arena as a guard entered the open space. When Aurora came to a stop before the soldier, Cyrus’ brows furrowed together into a frown. He marched over to them, and his presence caused the guard to look up.
“
Dominus
wishes to see you both.”
He exchanged a quick look with Aurora.
Undoubtedly, Claudius had heard of what had happened. Cyrus experienced a moment of fear for Aurora, for what she’d done.
He moved to reassure her with his eyes, but she was already trudging forward.
No
—Aurora was not a simple, uncomplicated woman. She did not want nor did she need his reassurance. She would face Claudius’ wrath on her own. And yet he longed to comfort her, to assuage whatever fears she harbored. He longed to do so much more.
With a strained sigh, he followed.
He reasoned this promised to be torture of the worst kind—to want a woman who did not want him, to desire a woman he could never have.
As Cyrus trailed after her, she could feel his eyes upon her, piercing her, boring through her
tunica
, past her resolves, straight to her soul.
She imagined he stalked behind her, his face a rigid mask of pure, blatant, raw masculinity. Cyrus was not a classically handsome man, his features were chiseled, dangerous. He had a brutishness to him that made her insides quiver, that made her long to experience the power of him as only a woman could. He was a man of such wide sweeping contrasts, it made her breathless.