Dear Olivia,

Thank the gods, you live!

I have never worried so much in my life. I feel like I haven't breathed in days. Ah, the things you do to me, Livi.

You're awake, talking to Heather. When you first woke, you and I talked for a solid hour. Though the talk came to a sad conclusion, I'm glad you're no longer evading me. I'd rather be your consisted friend than your lover, sporadically.

Aye, it will be difficult for both of us, I know this already. But I agree with you: it's for the best. We ought to keep our distance.

Still, after this great ordeal, I had to kiss you at least once more. It was a good kiss, Livia. Perhaps our last together.

We're almost to Sweden, now. There, we will get you help somewhere without government intervention. After this scare, there's no way I'm letting you go untreated. I don't care how much it costs. You're worth more, I can promise you that much.

I've missed your laugh. You and Heath, you're chatting away over there like two normal women. It's adorable, really. You're even holding hands. Whenever you think Heath hates you, Livi, you just look back on this moment. She loves you.

Love is such a strange thing. Everyone seems to think its so hard to find, but it's everywhere if you just look for it. Ordeals like this one only highlight it.

When we get back to the Gulf, I've decided to take you to Cuba. Although we aren't together, I should like to introduce you to my mother. I know you and your mother aren't especially close, but I know mine will love you like you belong to her.

I'm sure Cande will love you, too. I can see you two together, swapping secrets and braiding each others hair like sisters. Cande asked me to teach her how to braid hair. I swallowed my pride and showed her. I even let her use me as a mannequin for her own stylings.

Perhaps that's not the most pirate-like thing I've ever done, but that's what love is, isn't it? Bending yourself for someone else?

Ah, well. At least you live, mi amor.

                 Buenas noches,

                               -Robin ♥

XXX

Peter prayed and prayed for death, but it didn't come.

No, instead the whip came back for him again and again, setting fire to his nerves. He couldn't breathe from the pain. It stifled him, suffocated him, smothered him.

The world had been reduced to three things: the whip, the pain, and the screams.

Even through the thick haze of his agony, he could hear Heather yelling. She screamed insults and pleas, promises and bargains. Ever once in awhile, she would call out something to Peter. "I'm sorry!" or "It's going to be okay!"

He didn't know how much time had passed. Peter felt as though he'd been chained here forever, as though this pain was perpetual, stretching endlessly on in front of him and behind him like a long trail of footprints in the sand.

Mateo had abandoned his calm persona. His face had now gone red, slick with sweat. He no longer asked, "Where is it?" Now he demanded, "Think harder!"

"I can't!" he'd shouted back in the beginning. "I can't, I can't! She won't talk to me!"

He knew it was no use. All he could do was scream and cry and hope it would be over soon.

One last lash struck his back, drawing a long gasp from Peter. His lungs folded in, refusing to breathe. He clutched his chest, pressing his body to the wall to stay upright. The whipping had stopped. The pain became infinitely worse.

"¿Cómo?" he heard Mateo snap.

The moment he looked away, Heather sprang from her chair and ran to him. Her eyes were dry but full of pain. "You poor baby," she whispered, kneeling beside him. Peter couldn't stay standing any longer. He collapsed into Heather's lap, letting her rock him like a baby. He wrapped his arms around her and cried into her shirt like a little boy trying to draw sympathy from his mother after falling on the playground.

He heard Mateo and someone else speaking Spanish behind him but couldn't summon the energy to listen. He felt limp, deflated as a popped balloon. There was nothing he wouldn't have given to be back home in Texas, tucked safe and warm under his blanket in Mrs. Barnes' house.

"Do you not see him!" shouted Mateo. "I will not have his filthy blood on her!"

A familiar voice shocked his ears. "I won't touch him, I promise."

He lifted his head, groaning with effort. "Amelia?" he whispered. "Where are you . . .?"

Only Heather heard him. She shushed him, covering his ear with a motherly hand. He imagined himself falling asleep in her arms and never waking up. Fading into nothingness, just as easy as that.

When Amelia spoke again, his heart jumped to his throat, demanding more tears. "Give me two minutes," she begged. "That's all. Then I'll do what you want. I promise!"

He heard Mateo growl. "Fine. Two minutes, no more. Heather!" he called. "You are to come with me."

Peter didn't take in the words. He only felt Heather's warmth leaving him, only heard her retreating footsteps. He burst into renewed sobs, his body's pain flooding through him. A door closed, the noise splitting his aching head.

"Peter?" said a soft voice. He felt a presence beside him, smelled a warm vanilla scent. "Open your eyes."

He forced his eyelids open, recognizing the voice. And indeed, there she sat, her hair smoothed to perfection and her face done up with a smooth coat of makeup. Her mascara-laden lashes fluttered over tear filled eyes. Her skin remained unharmed and unblemished, from what Peter could see.

"Oh my god, Peter. What did he do to you?" Amelia's hand brushed over his cheek, her touch stinging the cuts on his face. Heaving him into her lap, she continued to assess his wounds. "Petey, talk to me. Say something."

He groaned, leaning his head on her forearm. Kill me, he wanted to say. Put me out of my misery. But the words wouldn't come out, so he stayed silent.

A tear fell from her eye, hitting his cheek with such a sting that he cried out, his throat feeling sandpapery and rough from dehydration.

"Did I hurt you?" Amelia wept. "I didn't mean to, I didn't. What did I do? Is it your arm? Is it broken?"

He shook his head, unable to relate to her the horrors of the previous hours. The burns on his arms and neck, the uniform cuts on his face, drawn by a quick, sharp blade. The fingernail marks in his palms, made by his own anxious tendency. The lingering taste of cotton in his mouth from the hour he spent bound to the table, first choked by a wad of fabric shoved down his throat, then doused in icy water that stole his breath and crowded his lungs.

Even if he could speak, he wouldn't have told her these things. Poor Amelia, she already looked so frightened without knowing half of it. Why deepen her pain?

"They're giving me away," she said. "The captain's son, he's turning fifteen. They're giving me to him, Peter." His confusion must have shown on his mangled face. Brushing his matted curls away from his face, Amelia explained, "I'm his birthday present. It makes sense now, doesn't it? Why they did this all to you and kept me safe?"

Peter stared at her, so overcome with pain that he couldn't blink. Pain of a different kind, this time; he felt as though his heart was being squeezed by a dozen metal bands, trapped in an excruciating pattern of hurt. "B . . . birthday present?" he managed to croak.

He imagined this boy, a tall hispanic hero with a young face and roaming brown eyes. He imagined the boy with Amelia, the two of them making the most handsome couple on the dance floor. He imagined the boy taking her away to an empty room, imagined him taking her face in his hand and bringing his lips to hers, stealing her first kiss right away.

A sudden pang of panic shot through him.

"Kiss me," he said, clearly and without warning.

Amelia looked just as shocked as Peter. "What?"

"I wanted to be your first kiss," he told her, no longer embarrassed by this desire. "And I want you to be mine. He's not going to take that from us."

Amelia stared at him. Then a grin began to light her face. "I thought you'd never ask."