Page 5 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

The room is soaked in luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across one entire wall, revealing a glittering Manhattan skyline that feels more like a mockery than a view. Everything inside gleams—velvet furnishings, golden accents, glass sculptures that look more fragile than I feel. It’s tastefully inhospitable, like its owner.

Lazaro didn’t even bother hiding the cameras—sleek little eyes tucked into every corner like silent sentries. I count at least six, and I’m sure there are more.

I don’t waste time exploring. Exhaustion clings to me like a second skin. My clothes are still clinging to my skin, the fabric stiff from dried rain. Every thread itches with memory—blood, humiliation, and that bastard’s voice echoing in my head.

Somehow, I make it to the massive bed—soft, too soft—and collapse onto it without a word. The mattress cradles me, sinking beneath my weight. I hate that it’s comfortable. I hate that I notice. I hate that it smells faintly of cedar and detergent—too clean, too nostalgic—reminding me of home, of the way my mother used to make sure our sheets were always fresh. Ironically, that memory is why I avoided washing my sheets often. It made the past feel too close.

I roll onto my side, clutching the blanket like a shield. My fingers brush the raw skin at my wrists, and I breathe through the burn.

My eyes drift to the windows, to the glittering lights of the city that never sleeps. New York—there’s nothing like it. The skyline used to be my escape, the place I’d run to whenever I needed to outrun my reality. But now, Lazaro has tainted it. He’s stolen that solace from me. I’ll never be able to look at this city the same way again.

Despite trying to stay awake, my eyes start to droop. Years ago, I ran away from a life that never really belonged to me. It wasn’t easy—I fought and bled. I never stayed in one place too long because deep down, I always knew someone would come looking. Still, I made it out. I built a place for myself from the ground up.

You’ve done it once, Calista. You can do it again. I tell myself. No one owns you.

My eyes finally give in, and I let them shut, drifting into sleep before I can stop it.

XXX

A sharp knock jolts me awake.

It takes a moment to remember where I am. For a second, I expect to see the peeling walls of my apartment. But then it all comes rushing back—Lazaro, the black SUV, the cuffs biting into my skin, the velvet-lined cage masquerading as a penthouse suite.

Morning light filters in through the massive windows and I sit up slowly, body stiff and sore.

I glance toward the door.

It opens before I can say anything.

A woman walks in. Her silvery-black hair is swept into a sleek chignon, not a strand out of place. Dark eyes peer at me behind expensive glasses, sharp and observing. Everything about her—the tailored suit, the confident stride—radiates authority with a touch of old-world glamour.

She carries a silver tray with breakfast—fruit, bread, eggs, coffee, all arranged like it’s a royal affair.

"Good morning," she says smoothly, placing the tray on the table with the grace of someone who’s done this before—not offering, but commanding.

"You can take this poison away," I say, not bothering to hide the edge in my voice.

"Don’t mistake hospitality for mercy."

I don’t answer. I stare back, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction.

Her gaze sweeps over me, then settles back on the tray. "You should eat," she says, almost too casually. "You’ll need the strength."

I scoff.

Her smirk deepens. "I don’t care if you eat or not," she says coolly. "But we’d rather not deal with a patient right now—we’ve got enough on our plate."

"What? More abductions?" I snap, my voice laced with sarcasm.

She looks unamused like she deals with the likes of me everyday. "You’re sharper than I expected. Let’s hope that mouth doesn’t get you into trouble."

The woman turns and walks out, shutting the door behind her. I don’t hear the click of a lock—which offers no comfort. It only means they’re confident enough in their security that they don’t need to bother locking me in.

I glare at the tray. The scent of food hits me harder than I expect, but my stomach turns just looking at it.

Still, I reach for the glass of water and down it in one breath. My throat is parched, dry from hours of silence and the hell of yesterday. But food? No. I’m not giving them that satisfaction—not yet.

That’s when I notice the change of clothes neatly folded at the foot of the bed. Plain white t-shirt. Sweatpants. How generous.

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