It was of little surprise that her lover’s wife had seen fit to sell her once he had died. With no children of their own, he had been excited for the prospect of a child with the woman he called his butterfly. He would have claimed the boy as legitimate, would have made him the heir to what little fortune he had. And Olena would have welcomed it, would have enjoyed the added joy that came with both security and motherhood. It would have meant that she would have never had to worry about her position in his household. It would have meant that she would have been allowed to stay close, to raise him as a mother should. It meant that she would have had a place in the world.

But when she went into labor, and he came out blue without a sound on his lips or breath in his lungs, her world came crashing down.

He had suggested that they name him. But she hadn’t the heart to do so, not when all the pain and suffering she’d gone through to bring him into the world had produced no fruit of her labor. Not when her breasts ached with milk she would never give, unable to find relief from the pain that came with her engorgement. Instead, she let him hold her as she wept bitterly at his grave, so small that she was certain he would end up forgotten by a world that did not want him. Her master had whispered his love that she did not share with him, promising they would try again as soon as she was well enough to do so. But her health was not the issue, it seemed.

For as soon as she seemed to be getting better, his own health rapidly declined. And there was little surprise that his dying breath carried his wishes to be buried next to his son.

Olena did not expect any empathy from his wife, nor was there any hit of surprise when she ignored the wishes of his will to set her free. Instead, she did what any scorned wife would do.

She sold her.

Nothing was saved for the foreign girl with bright red hair. Every single thing she’d ever been given in the 3 years she had been his concubine had been sold as if it had never been hers in the first place. Fine jewels, expensive clothing, all her handmade garments that she’d spent time and effort creating went to line the pockets of a now wealthy widow. There had always been spite for the redhead, as she was young and beautiful and his wife barren. But she never would have thought that she would end up back where she started. But instead of being sold in a local auction, to someone who would have recognized her and potentially fought for the rights the will promised, she was cast off to pirates. They would take her out of reach, and would make sure that she never had the means to set foot in the lands of her lover again.

There was little need to bind her hands, for any fight she had in her had vanished in her days spent in a cage. Her tunic was dirty, no longer the cream color it had been on the day she put it on almost 2 weeks prior. It had been the last piece that she had been able to salvage, the embroidering around the neck and hem reminiscent of the pieces she’d done as a child. Her curls were ratty, tied back to keep the unwashed mess out of her face. The thin sandals on her feet were the same as most criminals wore, for his wife thought that Olena had stolen everything from her and it was only fitting for her to be dressed as such.

There was little remaining proof that she had ever been pregnant. Her stomach had lost the belly that came with carrying a child, though the skin was still striped and red with the marks from its rapid growth. Her hair had started to fall out, which she had been told was to be expected even if the child had lived. She could not deny the fear that tore at her heart when she had heard the word ‘pirates’ used in conjunction with her name.

Pirates had taken everything from her. They had burned her home, had killed her family in violent acts in front of her very eyes. They had seen fit to rape her into submission so that she was the example for the other prisoners on what happened to those who tried to escape. They had taken the most gold they could get from the sale of her youthfulness and never thought twice about it. The ice that filled her veins as the memories assaulted her was painful. For the first time in years, as she was being escorted to the ship that would make the past three years just a memory, she thought of Dmytros.

It hurt more than the loss of her child.

He was dead. She had told herself that the moment she was sold the first time, for there had been little other way she could handle the times in which she was used by the men on that boat towards her new life. Any hope that he was alive, that he would come and rescue her only made each and every violation of her body more visceral. But in this moment, as she was being led up the walkway to the ship, she found herself thinking of his curls. Of the soft way he would look down at her. Of the sweet way he would hold her. Of their moments of quiet in a field of flowers. She did not think of him because it ripped through her, tearing out any stability she had formed within her mind. The walls she had built up crumbled as the ghosts of her past assaulted her.

Before her feet left the stable dock, she offered up a desperate prayer. She begged Dima to protect her son for her, to keep him safe and to show him the love that she could not until she was able to finally join them in the release that would be death. Her eyes were shut tights as the men shoved her forward onto the boat. They laughed at her, the use of a language foreign to them making her seem all the more broken. Eyes were on her, she could tell. Whatever fire she had in her was long gone, and all she could hope for now was to be left alone by those who were staring hungrily at the easy prey of a woman like her.