Gladiator Heart by Alyssa Morgan

chest, trying to fight back her tears. Escape would not be easy.
    Tristan was so enraged with Valeria he had to throw her away from him onto the bed before he squeezed the life right out of her. She scrambled to sit up and backed herself against the wall of the tent, bracing her hands on either side of her as she dared to meet his angry stare.
    He didn’t know where to start with her. It was apparent she was rattled from the attack by his men, but she’d fought them with all her might, swearing profusely at them. In his language. Yet another thing she’d kept hidden from him.
    “You speak my language well,” he snarled, now forgoing the use of the proper Latin the Romans spoke. “You will only speak to me in my language from now on.”
    “And if I refuse?”
    “We won’t speak.”
    She watched him with fear glistening in her eyes as he paced the tent, trying to figure out what he should do with her. He had to punish her for trying to escape. He couldn’t go easy on her any longer. She had no respect for him because he hadn’t demanded any from her. He would show her what it meant to disobey him.
    “I suppose you think you’re brave.” He tossed off his fur and went over to her. He took her chin between his fingers and lifted her to face him so he could inspect the bleeding cut on her cheek. “It took courage to fight against my men.”
    She stared back at him in cold defiance. “Even a slave has enough courage to fight for her life.”
    Tristan was not prepared for this woman, with her strong will and her sly, artful ways. Why couldn’t the Gods have sent him a simple, manageable woman who would appreciate his protection and bend easily to his will? Instead, they’d chosen to send him the most spirited woman he’d ever met. One who would never trust him, nor welcome him as a man.
    Why did he want her to?
    Completely frustrated, he walked across the tent, filled the basin with fresh water from the pitcher, and took that and a clean towel back over to her. He set the basin beside her and wet the towel, then gently began to dab at the bruised cut on her cheek. His man had hit her so hard he’d broken the skin.
    Valeria pulled back from him. Displeased, he grabbed her face in his hand and held her still while he cleansed the wound. She jerked free of his hold, slapping his hands away, refusing to let him touch her. Ready to hit her himself, he stood and threw the towel into the basin, splashing water up at her.
    When he crossed the tent and knelt beside the fire to add more kindling to the dying flames, she wet the towel herself and dabbed at the wound. She kept her eyes down and wouldn’t meet the glances he sent over his shoulder. Completely at a loss for what to do next, he sat beside her on the bed. She stopped washing and nervously wrung the towel in her hands.
    She finally looked up at him. “What are you going to do with me?”
    Tristan gave a heavy sigh and scrubbed a hand over his beard. He should beat her, starve her, torture her—Gods knew he wanted to. It’s what her people would do to him. He shouldn’t have trusted her enough to let her roam freely about his tent, instead of chained to his bed.
    “I don’t know what to do with you.” His answer was too honest, even for him.
    “What makes you different from other men?” Her question was directed more to herself than to him, as if she was striving to figure out some secret about him.
    “Am I so different?”
    He didn’t think so. Tristan was like any man, with the same needs, the same desires, and the same instincts. Why should she think him different from any other?
    She turned her troubled eyes to him. “You must be, otherwise I wouldn’t feel…”
    When she didn’t finish, he asked, “You wouldn’t feel what?”
    She shook her head and looked down at her hands twisting in her lap. That she wouldn’t tell him what she’d been about to say had his temper flaring. What game was she playing now?
    “Do you mock me?” He clenched