Page 19 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

Her hands roam too now—across my shoulders, down my chest—feeling, claiming, responding to every movement I make. I grip her hips tighter, pull her flush against me until there’s no space left between us. She gasps again, a soft sound that feels like a damn victory.

The longer we kiss, the more the world spins, not from the wine, but from her. It’s like every part of her is a challenge I’m desperate to conquer—and terrified I never will. Heat rolls through me, thick and relentless. My blood pounds, and I feel her heartbeat echo against my own.

And then—reality crashes back in. I pull away abruptly, breath ragged, heart thundering. I push her back gently, but firmly. She stumbles, eyes wide with shock and what I can only call regret. Her lips are swollen, glistening, her breath coming in soft pants. Her eyes search mine.

"Who’s scared now?" I whisper.

She says nothing, just stares back at me, chest rising and falling rapidly. It feels like something might shatter between us—or fuse completely.

But I turn and walk away without another word. Her taste lingers on my tongue, hauntingly sweet and maddening. I want to hate her. I want to erase every trace of this desire clawing its way through me.

But I want her too.

And I no longer know which feeling is stronger.

Chapter 9 – Calista

It’s nearly dawn, but sleep isn’t even a remote possibility. My head’s still foggy from the wine, and my mouth is dry as hell. I roll over in bed for the hundredth time, groaning into the pillow.

And then his face flashes in my mind.

That stupid kiss. That stupid look in his eyes. That stupid way my knees actually went a little weak.

"Stop thinking about that asshole," I mutter, pushing the sheets off and sitting up. My head still feels heavy, like I’ve been sleepwalking through a dream I didn’t ask to be part of. Ugh.

I slip out of bed and shuffle toward the door, barefoot and still wearing the satin slip I passed out in. The hallway is quiet—eerily quiet. No guards, no footsteps, no voices. Just the soft tick of some expensive clock somewhere and the city’s hustle and bustle trying to sneak in through thick glass windows.

I take the stairs instead of using the elevator. I want to avoid the chance of bumping into Lazaro. God forbid I see him again tonight. Last thing I need is another brooding stare or some smug remark that makes me want to punch him.

The downstairs kitchen is tucked away, more modest than the sleek, over-polished one upstairs. It smells faintly of spices and metal. I open a cabinet, find a glass, and pour myself some water from the pitcher in the fridge.

Cool relief hits my throat. I close my eyes and lean against the counter, letting silence settle around me. This place is always too quiet, too clean. It feels like a museum where violence once happened—but the staff wiped the blood off the floor before anyone could notice.

I open a drawer, digging for something snack-worthy. Crackers. Great. That’s fine. I nibble on one, chewing slowly as I stare out the window into the black stretch of skyline beyond the glass.

That kiss wasn’t supposed to happen. It wasn’t in the plan. It wasn’t supposed to feel like—

No. Stop. I shake my head, annoyed at myself. I’m not some lovestruck fool. He’s still the bastard who locked me in this penthouse like some kind of pretty little hostage. No amount of passionate lip-locking is going to make that go away.

Still… the way his hand gripped my face, the way his fingers slid around my waist—

"Ugh!" I growl under my breath and toss the cracker back into the box.

I should go back to bed. But I feel a prickle along the back of my neck. I glance toward the hallway that leads to the utility stairs—usually kept shut, but tonight it’s cracked open.

Odd.

I step closer, heartbeat picking up. The staircase leads to the lower-level security floor, one I’ve never been allowed access to. No guards are supposed to be off-duty, but this door being open? That’s a red flag. Or maybe paranoia. But I’ve learned to trust my instincts.

I inch forward with light steps. Something’s off. I just can’t quite put my finger on it yet.

As I near the corner, I hear it—a voice. Low, sharp, urgent.

Riven.

I freeze, heart slamming against my ribs. Lazaro’s right-hand man. The guy who rarely speaks unless he’s issuing orders or threats. And right now, he’s talking to someone—on the phone.

"No—she’s getting too close," he says, his voice cutting through the quiet. "If this falls apart now, it’s on you. I told you this was a risk from the beginning."

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