Page 43 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

Orange embers are still crackling in the distance, casting silhouettes against the smoldering warehouse in the rearview. The SUV is idling on the edge of the district, quiet and heavy with heat—not just from the wreckage we’re leaving behind, but from something far more dangerous that’s building inside me.

I stay silent at first. I stare through the windshield, heart pounding, fingers tight around the steering wheel. My shirt is soaked with blood and sweat, clinging to my skin. The glow of the flames outside dances across the glass, painting shadows over Calista’s face.

Finally, I turn around. “Take the second car. Leave.”

Ethan stays silent. Cain does too. They exchange a look, nod, and slip out, the door shutting with a soft, final click. Within seconds, the other SUV is gone, tires hissing against gravel.

It’s just us now.

Me and her. Alone. Caged in dark leather and glass.

She shifts beside me, still catching her breath, chest rising and falling fast. Blood streaks her cheek, a smear across her jaw from where she leaned against cover. Her coat’s open, revealing black on black.

I can’t stop watching her.

“You held your own tonight,” I say, my voice low, scraped raw.

She glances at me, unwavering. “You thought I wouldn’t?”

Our eyes lock. Hers still carry the high of violence, sharp and wild. Mine? I don’t know what’s left in them—too much maybe. Too much want. Too much need. Too much pride in the way she fucking handled herself tonight.

“I thought I’d have to drag you out,” I murmur, lips twitching.

She smirks, slow and lethal.

I lean in, my hand sliding along the seat until it’s near the edge of her thigh. My breath brushes her cheek, warm and ragged. Every part of me feels coiled, ready to snap. My cock aches—hard and unforgiving—and all I can think about is her. The blood on her skin. The way she looked holding that gun like she was born to bring hell.

She leans into me, parting her lips like a dare. Her hand rests on my chest, right over my pounding heart. It fucking belongs to her.

“Tomorrow,” I whisper, my voice a growl, “we talk about what comes next.”

But tomorrow feels like another life.

Her face is inches from mine. Her breath mixes with mine, and her thumb drags down the line of blood on my chest. I shudder under it.

“Tomorrow,” I say again, lower this time, darker.

But neither of us moves away.

The heat between us simmers—volatile, impossible to contain. I’m not thinking about strategy anymore. I’m not thinking about the De Corsis or the aftermath. All I want is her. Right here. Right fucking now.

It’s a dangerous balance.

One breath. One word.

And I’ll give in.

Chapter 19 – Calista

I don’t know if this fire in my chest is rage or grief trying to survive—but it’s the first time I’ve felt anything real in days.

My pulse is hammering. It’s because of him.

Lazaro.

He’s devouring me with those eyes. Eyes like storms, sharp and hungry. They track me like prey, his stare dragging over my blood-smeared thigh, the rise and fall of my chest, my parted lips. And I swear to God, I can feel that look between my legs.

“You still hate me?” he asks, voice low, rough velvet in the dark. A rumble more than a question.

---