Page 37 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

“You already killed him. What more do you want?”

I say nothing. My actions will do the talking. I just shove the pliers back in, gripping one of his molars with deliberate precision. He thrashes, but it’s useless. I clamp down hard and pull. The crack is sharp, wet, awful. Blood floods his mouth, mixing with the guttural scream that rips from his throat as the tooth comes free.

“Talk,” Ethan growls, stepping in beside me.

I slam my fist into Zayn’s ribs. The chair tips sideways under the force, but I haul him back upright, forcing him to meet my gaze.

“What's Zano planning?” I demand, my voice growing sharper. The information I need is just within reach, but he’s too fucking stubborn to speak.

Zayn grits his teeth, spitting blood all over the floor. “I don’t know,” he mutters. “I’m just... a messenger.”

“Wrong answer,” I mutter under my breath.

I move behind him and yank his head back, exposing the tender flesh of his throat. My hands are steady as I squeeze his cheeks, forcing him to look at me.

“You’re going to tell me everything,” I growl. "Or I’ll make sure your last memory is of pain. Endless pain."

His body shakes, breath hitching in terror. But he stays silent. Refuses to give me what I want.

I turn to Ethan. “Make him scream,” I order.

And scream, he does.

The low hum of the overhead lights buzzes faintly in my ears, mixing with the occasional gasps and choking sounds from Zayn. He’s barely hanging on now, his body trembling uncontrollably in the chair. I can see it—the cracks forming. The last remnants of defiance are slipping through his fingers like sand, and he’s starting to realize there’s no way out of this.

His breath comes in shallow gasps, the rattling of his chest barely audible over the pounding in my head. The storm within me is still raging—fury over the death of Calista’s brother, the pain in her voice that I can’t erase, and the promise I made to her that I would make them all pay. But the truth—this sick, twisted revelation—will change everything. It will fuel the fire in a way that nothing else can.

Zayn’s swollen eyes barely blink as he meets my gaze. I can see the shift—the moment when the last sliver of his resolve gives way. His chest rises and falls with uneven breaths, the pitiful whimpers echoing in the chamber.

“I... I can’t take it anymore,” Zayn finally gasps, his voice hoarse, cracking between broken breaths. His entire body trembles, but it’s not from the pain alone. It’s the terror.

“Then talk,” I order, my voice laced with a deadly calm that contrasts sharply with the rage seething beneath the surface.

“He wants Calista…” Zayn chokes on the words, but they spill out in a rush, like they’ve been clawing to escape. His body shudders violently with the effort. “Not because he desires her. Because without her... he gets nothing.”

I freeze, my mind racing to process the meaning behind his words. My fists tighten and my mouth goes dry. “What do you mean?” I ask, each word heaving with meaning, as though forcing him to elaborate might make the truth cut deeper.

Zayn coughs, a wet, desperate sound. His head lolls to the side as he tries to catch his breath. The desperation in his voice is thick. “The blood-pact… the legacy...” He pauses to wheeze, as if the effort is going to kill him. “It’s tied to that fucking contract. Their marriage. No bride, no power.”

My gaze hardens, my eyes narrowing as I step closer, fists clenched so tightly that my knuckles turn white.

Zayn’s wheezy breaths are the only sound that fills the space, but his words have already hit their mark. The storm inside me quiets, replaced by a much colder rage.

“So, this is all about the contract?” I ask, my voice almost too calm, too controlled. “This is all just about power?”

Zayn doesn’t respond right away. He’s struggling to keep his eyes open, his body hanging limply in the chair. But I can see the terror in his eyes, the way they dart around the room like a cornered animal.

“It’s bigger than that,” he finally admits, his voice breaking. “Zano wants to control the Virelli Syndicate. And he knows that without Calista, he can’t do it. The marriage—her being tied to the legacy—without her, he has no claim. No power. Nothing.”

I step closer. Zayn’s broken body shakes in the chair before me, and I see the terror in his eyes. His usefulness ended the moment he spoke those words.

I lean in, my face inches from his mangled one, close enough to see every detail of the damage I’ve inflicted. Blood streaks his face, and the remains of his eye twitch in panic. I can feel the heat of his breath against my skin as he gasps, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already dead.

“Let me do you a favor,” I murmur, my voice quiet, barely a whisper.

Zayn’s eyes widen in terror, but I cut him off before he can speak. Without hesitation, I pull out my pistol, the cool steel of it heavy in my hand.

The shot rings out in the chamber with a sharp, deafening crack.

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