Page 69 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

Sharp. Final. No room for argument.

Then his hand’s on my back, grounding me. I barely feel it, but somehow it keeps me from collapsing.

He guides me out of the warehouse, his steps steady while mine drag like I’m walking through molasses. Behind me, Zano’s screams fade into the night, into the wail of sirens and the static of police radios.

We reach the car. Lazaro opens the door and I slide in without a word. My body feels foreign, like it’s moving on instinct, detached from whatever’s left of me. My brain is screaming but I can’t hear it anymore.

He gets in beside me. The doors shut. The world dulls.

Rain drums the roof in hard, steady pulses, syncing with the dull thud of my heartbeat like some kind of twisted lullaby. It’s the kind of sound that is supposed to make you feel safe—but nothing about tonight feels safe. My body’s heavy, drenched in adrenaline that’s finally bleeding out of me. I lean into Lazaro, resting my head on his shoulder. He smells like smoke and steel, sweat and blood and it’s the only thing anchoring me right now. Everything else feels distant, unreal.

My eyes drift shut. Not because I’m calm, but because I’m spent—mentally, physically, down to the bone. Sleep hits hard, no grace to it—like a fucking truck, no warning. My limbs go limp. I let the numbness wrap around me like a blanket laced with barbed wire.

There are no dreams. Just darkness. Like flipping the switch on reality and letting it all go. No more screaming. No more blood. No more Zano. Just that void that feels a hell of a lot better than everything I’ve been carrying.

Epilogue – Lazaro

Italy smelled like rain and roses that day. The sky stretched out in blinding blue above us, clouds drifting like lazy afterthoughts across the Tuscan hills. We were miles from the city, hidden away in an ancient villa perched on the edge of everything—overgrown cypress trees, old stone walls soaked in stories, and a vineyard that kissed the edge of the earth. It was the kind of place you take when you want the world to feel far away.

Calista walked down the aisle, flashing her tattoos like battle flags—and fuck, I couldn’t have been prouder.

The softest white silk clung to her body, hugging every wicked curve like it had been stitched onto her skin. Her dark hair was swept back in loose curls, her ink on full display—shoulder to wrist, fire and wings, and war. Her eyes locked on mine, calm and burning all at once. I’d seen her in blood. I’d seen her in fury. But this? This was the moment that nearly undid me.

She carried flowers—deep red peonies and white thistle—but they were nothing compared to her. Nothing could’ve been. Not when she looked like every sin I’d ever craved.

She carried the look of a woman who’d built herself back from ash. A woman who once ran from a wedding meant to chain her—now walking toward one she chose to burn for.

We didn’t say vows.

We made them with eyes and hands and heat.

And that night? We didn’t sleep.

We fucked like the world had ended and we were the only two left to rebuild it.

The windows were open, moonlight streaking across the sheets and her bare skin, catching on the sweat shining down her spine. The wind carried her moans into the dark, and I let every single one brand itself into my memory. She clawed at my back, nails dragging deep, her thighs tight around my waist. She held on like she could break me—and maybe she did.

I kissed every inch of her. Every scar, every tattoo, every dip and curve that made her mine. I licked sweat from her collarbone, bit the soft flesh under her jaw, buried my face between her thighs and worshipped her until she was shaking.

She tasted like salt and sin, and I couldn’t get enough.

She rode me like she was starving—like she had a point to prove. Her hands were planted on my chest, her hips slamming down onto me, slick and frantic and fucking perfect. Her tits bounced with every movement, and I grabbed them greedily, thumbs flicking her nipples until she gasped and cursed and moaned my name like it was the only one she'd ever speak again.

“Lazaro,” she panted, voice high and broken. “Don’t stop. Don’t you fucking stop.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I growled, thrusting up into her, watching her fall apart again.

We moved like animals. No rhythm. Just hunger. Just desperation. Her hands were in my hair, on my throat, gripping my shoulders, sliding down my chest. Mine were everywhere—cupping her ass, yanking her hips, gripping her waist so I could fuck her harder, dirtier.

I flipped her onto her stomach and dragged her hips up, taking her from behind as she screamed into the pillows. My hand slid up her spine, gripping her hair and yanking her back against me. She arched like a goddess, moaning like sin, her body taking everything I gave her and begging for more.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” I snarled against her ear, pounding into her, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the room. “You’re mine, Calla. Say it.”

“Yours,” she sobbed. “I’m yours, Lazaro.”

That did it. I pulled out, dragging her around by the waist, pushing her down onto the bed. Her chest heaved, flushed and slick and perfect. Her thighs trembled. Her lips were swollen, her eyes glassy.

And I wasn’t done.

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