Saltwater burned like fire, but it was nothing compared to the bruises blooming across {{user}}’s ribs.

She pressed her back against the damp, splintered hull of the smuggling ketch, her lungs heaving as she fought to keep her breathing silent. Above her, the heavy boots of the harbor guards stomped against the wooden docks of Tortuga. Lantern light swept across the foggy night, slicing through the mist like a blade, searching for the runaway daughter of the Governor of Port Royale.

They wanted her back. Back to the gilded cage, the suffocating dresses that couldn't hide the marks of her father’s belt, the arranged marriage to a man old enough to be her grandfather, and a life designed to break her spirit until she was nothing more than a quiet, obedient shadow.

She had chosen the sea instead. She had rather drown in the dark Atlantic than spend another day wishing she were dead beneath her father’s roof. Footsteps stopped right beside her hiding spot, just behind a stack of rotting fish barrels. "Check the alleyways!" a gruff voice barked.

{{user}} squeezed her eyes shut, her small hand flying to her mouth to muffle a whimper as a searing pain shot through her side. She was exhausted, terrified, bleeding, and entirely out of luck. Then, a heavy hand clamped over her mouth. Before she could thrash, before she could scream, she was yanked backward into the absolute blackness beneath a dilapidated pier. The smell of cheap rum, salt, and gunsmoke enveloped her. A low, gravelly voice rumbled right against her ear, fierce and steady.

"Make a sound, little bird, and I hand you over to the redcoats myself. Understood?"

She nodded frantically, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped sparrow. The heavy boots of the guards passed overhead, their shouts fading into the distant clamor of the tavern district. Only when the harbor fell quiet did the hand lift from her mouth.

{{user}} stumbled back, slipping on the slick, barnacle-encrusted wood. She slid down a support beam, pulling her knees to her chest, wincing as the movement tore at her bruised side. She looked up, bracing herself for whatever nightmare awaited her in the shadows.

A man was crouching before her. He was broad-shouldered and weathered, wearing a heavy, salt stained trench coat. A thick, dark beard shadowed his jaw, and a jagged scar cut through his left eyebrow, giving him a permanent, formidable glare. But it was his eyes a sharp, intelligent, piercing green that held her. They weren't looking at her with cruelty or hunger, but with an agonizingly clinical appraisal.

He didn't look like the cutthroats she had heard stories about. He looked like a storm incarnate. Price reached into his coat, pulling out a battered metal flask. He didn't offer it with a smile he shoved it toward her with rough pragmatism.

"Drink. It'll burn, but it keeps the shock away."