Page 39 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

But I can’t say it. Because she’s right, in a way. They want me to fall apart. To lose control. To make a mistake. And I can’t give them that satisfaction. Not now. Not ever.

There’s a knock at the door, breaking the lull that’s stretched between me and Lucrezia. It’s a sharp, insistent knock, and I know who it is before the door creaks open. Lazaro.

I don’t look up at first. It will take too much energy. But I can feel him, standing there in the doorway, his presence filling the space with his signature scent. He’s calm. Too calm. I want to scream at him, to tell him how much I hate him for bringing me into this world, for dragging me into this nightmare. But I can’t.

He steps inside, his eyes dark but calm, the same blank expression on his face that I’ve come to recognize all too well. It’s the look of a man who’s seen too much bloodshed. Who’s buried too much of his humanity to care about anything that isn’t his.

Lucrezia stands up, brushing invisible dust off her coat. She glances at Lazaro and then, with a rustle of silk, turns toward the door.

“Talk to her,” she says, her voice still controlled. “Remind her that emotions don’t win wars.”

Lazaro waits before answering. His eyes lock with mine, and for a split second, something raw passes between us—which is too real to ignore. He knows what I’m feeling. He’s felt it, too.

“Give her time,” he says quietly, his voice low, almost tender. “Her brother just died.”

Lucrezia pauses in the doorway, her gaze cutting into him, and I can see the challenge beneath her calm demeanor. It’s sharp and daring.

“Since when has that mattered to you?” she asks, her voice laced with a quiet venom.

Lazaro offers no reply. He simply watches her go, gaze ice-cold and unreadable.

The door clicks shut behind Lucrezia, leaving the room empty, filled with the lingering unease that neither of us seems to know how to handle. I can feel Lazaro standing there, his presence in the room like an anchor. He doesn’t say anything at first—doesn’t try to fill the space with words, and for once, I’m thankful for it.

But it’s suffocating, too. It presses down on me, making it harder to breathe. I keep my eyes averted, avoiding him. I can't bear the weight of his gaze. So, I just lie there, staring at the pillow, wishing I could disappear into it, hide from the world, hide from everything.

“How are you holding up?” His voice is soft. It’s a simple question, yet I know it means more coming from him—Don Lazaro, the man who usually couldn’t care less about anyone’s feelings. His tone is softer than I expected. More concerned. More... human.

I want to laugh at the question, want to scream that I’m holding up just fine, as if my world hasn’t just imploded. But the truth is, I’m not fine. I feel broken. Like a fragile shell that’s been shattered and put back together with cracks running through it.

Instead, my lip trembles, and the tears I’ve been holding back finally spill over. They burn my eyes, a sting I can’t ignore. I turn my face into the pillow, trying to muffle the sound of my sobs, but it doesn’t help. It never helps.

“I look awful,” I whisper into the soft fabric, my voice cracking.

There’s a long pause. I hear his steps, and then the bed shifts slightly as he moves closer. My heart skips a beat when I feel him kneeling beside the bed. His hand, warm and firm, brushes gently over my shoulder.

“You don’t,” he says quietly. His voice is steady, but there’s a tenderness I’ve never heard from him before there. “You look human.”

The words, simple and quiet, hit me harder than I expect. I don’t know what it is about them—maybe it’s the fact that in all this mess, in all the pain and chaos, he sees me. Just… me.

The sobs tear through me, ragged and desperate. I have no idea how to stop them—and no desire to. There’s nothing left for me to do but cry.

Lazaro’s grip on my shoulder tightens, and then he’s pulling me gently into his arms. His chest is solid beneath me, his heart beating steadily against my ear. It’s grounding. Steady. There’s no reason it should feel this good. But somehow, it does.

I don’t fight him. I can’t. Instead, I let him hold me, my hands clutching at his shirt like a lifeline. I cry harder, my body shaking with the force of it. The grief, the loss, everything that has been building up inside me—it’s all coming out, and I’m not even sure I care anymore.

I hear him murmur, but it’s muffled against the sounds of my own tears. It takes me a second to realize that he’s speaking to me, speaking to the broken woman in his arms.

“We’re going to make them pay for what they did to him,” he says, his voice steady, unwavering. “Trust me, Calla. I won’t let them walk away from this.”

His words feel like a promise, like a vow he’s making to me, and I believe him. For all the cruelness I’ve seen in him, all the ruthlessness, his voice is different now. It’s deeper. And it feels… real.

I can’t speak. I can’t find the words to tell him how much I need this. How much I need him to keep his word. My brother is gone. My family is gone. And the world feels too big, too empty without him. But Lazaro’s arms are solid around me, and for the first time in days, I feel like maybe, just maybe, I’m not completely alone.

His chin rests on top of my head, and the warmth of his body sinks into mine. There’s something comforting about the way he holds me—like he’s the one thing in this world that hasn’t been broken yet.

I don’t know how long we stay like that—him holding me, me crying against his chest—but it doesn’t matter. Time seems to stop, the world outside fading into nothing. It’s just him and me, and for the first time in a long time, it feels like there’s some kind of peace in the chaos. Some kind of solace in the storm.

I feel his lips press gently to my hair. It’s a soft kiss—tender, almost protective. The warmth of it seeps into me, and I feel a wave of comfort rush through me, as if his kiss is the only thing in the world that can make the pain subside, even just for a moment.

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