Page 6 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

"Ugh," I mutter. "He could’ve at least picked clothes that didn’t scream hostage."

I grab the clothes anyway and drag myself into the bathroom. My body is screaming with pain. The bathroom is bigger than my entire studio apartment—marble counters, glass shelves lined with high-end toiletries, and a shower that could fit three people comfortably. The light is harsh, too bright, revealing every bruise and scrape like a story written in skin. I strip down and step under the water, wincing the moment it hits my face. The spot where I slammed into the wall last night pulses with pain.

Still, I stand there longer than I should—letting the heat loosen the ache in my body, washing off the remnants of yesterday.

I step out of the shower reluctantly, toweling off quickly before pulling on the plain clothes. My hair is still dripping as I shut the bathroom door behind me—and then I freeze.

Lazaro Virelli is standing across from the bed, arms crossed, calm as ever—perfectly at ease in a room that isn’t his, yet somehow feels claimed by him.

He looks different in the daylight. Taller somehow, more imposing. The sharp lines of his suit hug a frame built from lean muscle and lethal strength—a panther in human form. His hair is dark and immaculate, slightly tousled but somehow still put together. Those cool gray eyes meet mine—assessing me from top to bottom.

I narrow my eyes. "Ever heard of knocking? Or is barging into women’s rooms uninvited your usual routine?"

Lazaro offers no reply. He stays still.

I roll my eyes and toss the towel onto the bed with more force than necessary. Crossing my arms, I square my stance in front of him. "Where’s my brother, Lazaro?" My voice is sharp, edged with frustration.

"It doesn’t concern you," he says, voice smooth and devoid of emotion.

"The hell it doesn’t! You hand me his fucking finger and expect me to shrug it off?"

"You’re not speaking to him—so why waste the energy? And this?" He gestures vaguely between us. "This isn’t personal."

"Could’ve fooled me," I bite back. "You show up in the middle of the night, drag me from my life, lock me in your tower—sounds pretty damn personal to me."

His lips twitch, almost like a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. "I owe you no explanation. This isn’t about feelings. It’s business."

"Yeah? Well, your business reeks of ego and blood."

"Better than the scent of desperation and sweat," he replies.

I grab the empty glass from the tray and hurl it at his head. It misses by an inch, shattering against the wall behind him.

He doesn’t pull away.

"Everything’s personal when you’re the one in chains," I hiss, eyes blazing.

He steps closer, closing the distance between us. He towers over me, his presence swallowing the space between us. His hand reaches out, fingers curling around my neck—not tight enough to choke, but just enough to send a clear message: I’m at his mercy.

My breath hitches, not from fear—but fury.

His thumb grazes my jaw, where I was bruised last night and a hiss escapes my mouth, earning a smirk from him. I curse myself for giving him that satisfaction. His touch feels more like a warning than anything else.

"You’re not in chains, Calla," he murmurs, using the name only my loved ones use, but it sounds threatening coming from him. "Not yet. But keep testing me, and you’ll find out how cruel I can be."

He holds my gaze a moment longer, his grip tightening around my neck—a final, chilling reminder that he controls everything here. The pressure sends a rush of fury through me, but I don’t recoil. I maintain eye contact. I'm not afraid of him—if anything, I'm more certain now that I’ll make him regret underestimating me.

Then, with unsettling calm, he releases me.

I say nothing. There’s nothing to say that won’t cost me more.

Without another word, he turns and walks out, the door clicking shut behind him. I’m left standing in the middle of the room— boiling with anger, but helpless.

I catch my reflection in the massive mirror covering the opposite wall from the bed. My fingers rise instinctively to my neck, brushing over the red mark Lazaro left—a raw imprint of power and humiliation.

I’m not waiting to be rescued. Truth is, I’ve never cared much about saving myself. But my brother, Noel—he’s out there somewhere, and he’s in danger. He’s the only family I have left, the only person I’ve ever truly loved and trusted. He’s reckless, flawed, and half the time I want to strangle him—but he’s my brother. And I will tear down every wall, face every monster, and burn every bridge if it means finding him before it’s too late.

Chapter 4 – Lazaro

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