Page 55 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

I walk to the nearest wall—cracked concrete painted with shadows—and I write: "You will never own another woman."

Then, slowly, I drag my blood-soaked palm beneath the words, leaving a streak—a mark. My mark. A vow.

Behind me, Lazaro stands in the doorway. Silent. Watching.

He makes no move to stop me. Says nothing.

He doesn’t need to.

Because he knows exactly what this is.

This isn’t just revenge.

It’s revolution.

XXX

We don’t go back to the penthouse. Ethan and the others do—there’s debriefing to handle, logistics to reroute, statements to draft. Lazaro says nothing about it. He just leads me toward the SUV, nodding for the driver to reroute to the estate instead.

"It’ll give us space," he says, his voice low. "Time away from the noise. You need that."

I don’t argue.

By the time we arrive, the sky has darkened completely, the moon hanging heavy over the estate like a sentinel. I walk straight into the courtyard without saying a word, my boots crunching softly against the gravel. The marble fountain glistens under the moonlight, water gently spilling into the basin below.

I strip off my coat in one slow motion. My hands are streaked in dried blood, my clothes torn at the seams, my body vibrating with the aftershock of violence. But it’s not just my body that’s shaken—it’s my mind. Every second from the warehouse keeps playing on a loop. The screams. The cages. The girl’s eyes when she gripped my wrist. I can’t shut it off. Can’t breathe past it.

I’m meant to feel relief. Those women are finally free. They’ll get a second chance, a life beyond chains and drugged nights and numbered tattoos. And I swear—I’ll make sure they get it. I’ll make damn sure of it. But right now, I just want to forget. Just for a moment, I want to stop seeing it every time I close my eyes.

Still, I’m not ready to wash it away—not yet. Because as much as I want to erase it from my skin, part of me thinks I deserve to carry the stain a little longer. Just until I can breathe again without hearing their cries.

Lazaro finds me there, standing beside the fountain. He doesn’t speak at first, just watches me quietly from the archway. He’s a haunting sight—his dark shirt streaked with dried blood, the collar torn from where it caught during the raid. Smoke and ash still cling to the fabric like shadows. His knuckles are bruised, one hand flexing at his side, blood smeared across the cuff of his sleeve. There’s a gash along his forearm, the edge of the torn fabric soaked crimson. He looks like war incarnate—ruthless, battered, and terrifyingly calm. But beneath the ruin, there’s a quiet grief in his posture. A heaviness that mirrors the one lodged deep in my chest.

"Wash that off," he says finally, his voice softer now, quieter than the breeze curling through the courtyard.

He steps closer, and his hand rises slowly—so different from the way he moves in war, where every gesture is precise, brutal, commanding. This one is hesitant, tender. His fingertips graze my cheek, brushing away a smear of blood I’d forgotten was even there. The pad of his thumb lingers at my temple, warm and rough, carrying the echo of all the violence we both endured tonight.

Maybe shaking or crying would’ve made sense. But instead, I lean into his warmth like a drowning girl reaching for fire.

And I crave it. That touch. Not because it’s soft—but because it’s real. Because it reminds me I’m still standing, still breathing, still human under all this blood and rage. I want to lean into his hand, anchor myself to that fleeting gentleness, even if just for a second. It’s the first touch that soothes instead of burning. And I didn’t realize how much I needed that until now.

I turn to him, exhausted but alive. My voice is quiet, but steady. "No. Not yet."

"You didn’t just leave a mark tonight," he says, stopping a few feet from me. "You started a reckoning."

I exhale, the breath catching slightly in my throat. My fingers tremble faintly, the adrenaline finally ebbing. "I just wanted them to know. That we see them. That I see them."

Lazaro steps closer, his fingers lifting to gently work through the tangles in my hair. The gesture is slow, almost careful—so unexpectedly tender it feels foreign coming from him. Like he’s afraid that if he’s too rough, I might break.

"They’ll remember it," he murmurs. "Even in hell."

Our eyes lock again—and there it is. That electricity. That fire. That slow, magnetic pull neither of us can ignore. He doesn’t kiss me. But he wants to. I can feel it in every inch of space between us.

And I want him to.

But not yet.

Because what’s rising between us now isn’t just desire. It’s far more dangerous and deeper. What comes next won’t be strategy.

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