Chapter 19
Ricardo wasn’t going to survive this.
The pain. The struggle to breathe. The rising panic in August’s voice. This was worse than bad. It was the end. No way in hell it wasn’t.
He called out to August. He didn’t even know why. What he was saying. What he wanted to say. But his voice barely moved. Breathing at all was like pulling in molasses through a straw, and his chest hurt so bad his vision was turning white.
Except on the left. To his left, everything was… red. Dark red. Unnaturally red. Moving, bobbing red.
Then there were people. Two? Three? Or was it still just August, and Ricardo was seeing double or triple?
A face appeared in his blurry line of sight. Not August. Features too sharp. Hair too dark. Eyes the wrong shade of blue.
A scowl. The man turned his head and said something Ricardo couldn’t understand. At first, he thought it was because he was fading. Then he realized the man had spoken a different language. Something… Scandinavian?
Fuck, he really was losing it if he was hallucinating people speaking in languages he didn’t understand.
August appeared, soaked and muddy and bloody, and he cupped Ricardo’s jaw roughly in his cold, wet hand. “Ricardo. Stay with me. They’re going to put you on a stretcher and get you out of here.”
They? Stretcher? Here? What did any of that mean.
But then there was movement. Someone moved him, and he was aware of nothing but pain. He was… spinning. Swaying. Fuck, he was going to puke, which would hurt.
He managed to open his eyes despite the rain beating on his face, and the mess of lines above him resolved into… a pulley system?
Beside him, the red had turned black.
A hull. A ship’s hull.
That was when everything made sense—he was being raised in a basket onto a tanker.
He let his eyelids slide closed.
He still wasn’t going to make it out of this. Too much blood. Not enough air.
But at least his husband wouldn’t have to helplessly watch him die in the rain in a filthy boat.
He’d take it.