Page 24 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

"I’m already in the game," she replies, unblinking. "Might as well play it well."

I stare at her for a long moment, heat twisting low in my gut, but I take a step back. If I stay in her room for another minute, I’m going to kiss her again—and this time, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop.

"I’ll bring the document tomorrow," I say again, voice rougher this time. "Then we’ll talk."

She gives me a small nod. Not victory, not submission—just acknowledgment. Like she’s already calculated her next move.

I turn and head for the door, but I pause just long enough to glance back.

She’s watching me, cool and composed. There's a small smirk on her lips.

And for the first time… I’m not sure who’s leading this game anymore.

Chapter 11 – Calista

I sit on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, remote in hand, flicking through the channels even though nothing really catches my attention. Some mindless reality show plays in the background—over-the-top voices, fake laughter, all of it just noise. Still, it's better than silence. That makes me think. And thinking right now? Dangerous.

My fingers tap against my thigh, restless. Lazaro said he’d bring the document today. That goddamn blood pact. My mind’s a cyclone of thoughts I can’t slow down. It’s not just the curiosity—it’s the need. I need to know what I was worth. I need to see it with my own damn eyes.

I hate that I’m waiting on him. Like some obedient mutt expecting scraps. Ugh. I should’ve asked for a better deal—hell, even demanded my damn freedom. But no. I picked a piece of paper. A relic from the past. Why? Because I know that the document isn’t just ink on parchment. It’s a record of betrayal. And I need to see it—to face it—because I need that truth more than I need to breathe right now.

“Bet my father signed it like he was buying groceries,” I mutter to myself. “Maybe threw in a discount.”

I chuckle, dry and bitter.

The TV drones on, some over-tanned influencer crying about a broken nail. I roll my eyes. If only that were my biggest problem.

I lean back, head hitting the pillow. With Riven slithering through shadows, I know I can’t afford to let my guard down. And the messed-up part? This penthouse—this damn fortress—feels like the only place where he can’t touch me.

“Lazaro,” I whisper under my breath, scoffing. “Never thought you’d be the safer devil.”

But that’s the truth now. As twisted as it is.

Every time I see Riven, I can’t help but get breathless. It’s a warning. A silent scream my instincts won’t let me ignore. I see it in the way he moves. The fake calm. The too-casual conversations. The way he watches people a beat too long. Everything he does feels sinister.

But I won’t let him win.

I glance at the clock. Still nothing. Still waiting. My nerves are starting to fray, and I hate it. I hate that a man like Lazaro Virelli has me on edge, waiting like some trembling little thing.

Suddenly, there’s a knock at the door.

I sit up fast, heart catching mid-beat. The door opens, and there he is—Lazaro, silent and dominating as ever. He doesn’t say a word at first. Just steps inside and holds out a small black folder, sealed with the Virelli crest.

"You wanted it," he says simply. "Here."

I snatch it from his hand, not bothering to thank him. He just turns and walks out like none of this matters. Like he didn’t just hand me a grenade disguised in a velvet file.

I retreat to the desk, my hands already trembling as I break the seal and open the folder.

The paper smells faintly of dust and ink—old but preserved. My fingers shake as I flip through the first few pages—legal jargon, bloodline signatures, estate clauses. And then—there it is.

My name.

Scribbled beside a signature I know far too well.

Not my father’s.

My uncle’s.

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