Page 30 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

It’s been a week since Riven died, and I swear if I watch one more rerun of a crime show, I might actually throw the TV out the window. The estate is way too quiet—like a mausoleum with too much gold and not enough life. I’m curled up in my suite, wearing a silk robe and half-watching Die Hard, but mostly just staring at the ceiling. Even the dramatic explosions can’t distract me from the gnawing boredom.

I hate it, but I miss him.

Not in the romantic, swoon-worthy way. God, no. But Lazaro’s presence—his intensity, his constant looming energy—it’s like a gravitational pull. And now that he’s been locked in meetings and offices, I feel his absence.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore. I toss the remote across the couch, get up, and storm out of my suite. My footsteps echo down the marble corridor as I make my way toward Lazaro’s office. The penthouse feels colder, emptier with every step—too many chandeliers, not enough warmth. I go down the grand staircase, nod slightly at a guard stationed near the hall, and keep going. I don’t knock. I never do anymore.

He’s behind his desk, hunched over a stack of files, pen tapping against the paper like a ticking bomb. He looks like hell—dark circles under his eyes, tousled hair, and that black shirt clinging to him like it hasn’t been changed in a while. Still, somehow, he makes exhaustion look like a designer suit. Infuriatingly hot.

"I assume you’re not here to complain about the TV channels again," he says without looking up.

"No," I reply, arms crossed. "I want to help."

That gets his attention. He lifts his gaze slowly, eyes sharp. "Help? This isn’t a family bakery, Calla."

I roll my eyes. "I’m serious. You said it yourself—I’m not a pawn. Prove it. Put me to work."

He leans back in his chair, clearly amused. "So go find a better Netflix series."

"I’m bored out of my mind," I snap. "I’m capable, and you know it."

He studies me, eyes travelling down then back up. "And what exactly do you think you’ll be helping with?"

I take a step closer, planting my hands on his desk. "You said trust is earned. Well, I’ve been here long enough. Test me."

"And if I say no?"

I smile sweetly. "Then I’ll just keep showing up until you say yes."

His mouth twitches, almost a smirk. Almost.

"You’re not gonna give up, are you?"

"Even the person closest to you betrayed you," I say softly. "So what’s one more risk?"

His eyes narrow, glinting with intrigue. "Dangerous logic. But fine."

He sighs and tosses the pen onto the desk. "You mess anything up, you go back to reruns and silk robes."

"I'm already in a silk robe," I say, grinning.

He rolls his eyes and spins his laptop toward me. "Start with the inbox. You’ll read everything first. You’ll ask before you move a finger."

I go to sit beside him, but before I can settle into the chair, he grabs my wrist and tugs me gently—yet firmly—onto his lap instead. I let out a surprised breath, eyebrows shooting up. "Seriously?"

"It's my office," he says simply, as if that explains everything. His arm wraps casually around my waist, fingers resting just under my ribs, and suddenly I’m hyper-aware of every inch of my body touching his.

I shift slightly, trying to focus, but it’s impossible to ignore how warm his body feels beneath mine—or how steady his heartbeat is against my back. His scent surrounds me, that mix of expensive cologne and danger. It should annoy me. Make me want to snap a sarcastic comment. But all I manage is a sharp inhale as I reach for the laptop.

"Comfortable?" he murmurs near my ear, voice low and teasing.

"Hardly," I mutter, fingers poised over the keyboard, refusing to give him the satisfaction of flustering me further. But the leather chair is nothing compared to the fire brewing within me- and the proximity between us is what sends the real tremor through me.

We begin reviewing coded emails—shipments logged under aliases, encrypted names that reference locations in code, and upcoming dock arrivals tagged with suspiciously vague timestamps.

Lazaro leans closer, pointing at a pattern in the routing codes, his finger brushing mine as he explains, "This one here? It’s a decoy drop. Real cargo shifts two hours before." I nod, following his cues, clicking through spreadsheets and manifests while he adds, "If they use 'Crimson Tide' as a reference, it’s usually weapons—not textiles like they claim." His voice is calm, but there's steel beneath the words.

My eyes flick from line to line, and I pick up the threads quickly, recognizing inconsistencies others might miss. Lazaro watches me work in silence, nodding occasionally, his arm still snug around my waist. I can feel the heat of his body through the silk of my robe, the thin fabric barely shielding my skin, especially where it ends at my upper thighs. Every subtle movement reminds me of just how close we are—too close. I can feel his gaze every time I move the mouse—and I hate how aware I am of it.

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