Page 70 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

I straddled her, fisting my cock in my hand, watching her chest rise and fall beneath me. Her skin was slick with sweat, glowing in the moonlight, her breasts pressed together as she looked up at me, eyes blazing, lips curling into a filthy smile.

“Come on,” she whispered, voice ruined and sexy. “Do it. Mark me.”

“Fuck, Calla,” I groaned, the need clawing through my chest. I moved closer, slipping myself between her breasts. Her hands lifted, pushing her tits together tightly around me, creating the perfect wet heaven for my cock. I rocked my hips forward, sliding between the softness, the friction dizzying.

“Just like that,” she whispered, tongue darting out to lick the tip every time I thrust forward.

I gritted my teeth, fucking the space between her tits harder, watching my cock glide through the valley of her chest, slick with sweat and lust. Her eyes stayed locked on mine, daring me to fall apart. Her voice was a low, taunting purr. “You gonna come on me, Lazaro? Gonna cover me in it like I’m yours?”

I groaned, breath stuttering, rhythm faltering as the pressure built fast and brutal. “You are mine,” I growled. “Every fucking inch of you.”

She arched her back.

I came with a hoarse, guttural snarl, thick ribbons of cum coating her chest, splashing across her breasts, her collarbone, dripping down between her tits in messy, endless streaks. She didn’t shrink back. Didn’t look away. She just lay there, soaked in me, owned by me, her lips parted like she wanted more.

And fuck, I’d give her everything.

We didn’t make love—we made war. Beautiful, bloody, breathless war.

By the time the sun bled through the curtains, there were bruises on her thighs in the shape of my fingers. My back was clawed raw. The sheets were ruined. The room reeked of sex and sweat and the kind of love that can’t be undone.

She was mine.

And fuck, I was hers.

Weeks have passed since that day.

Veldenport breathes differently now—steadier, quieter. Not soft, never soft—but the edge is cleaner.

And today, Calista walks its streets like she owns every inch.

She moves like a storm that’s finally found peace. Her coat flutters behind her, boots clicking against the pavement, the wind teasing her hair. No more looking back now. Calista walks forward—unshaken, unstoppable.

“Renzo didn’t lift a finger when Zano was bleeding in chains,” I mutter, slipping my jacket off now that the sun is out. “Didn’t speak a word in his defense. He knew it was over.”

Calista raises an eyebrow. “So he just waited?”

“He was always a shadow. Quiet. But manipulative. Not loyal—just smart. The second Zano was out of the picture, Renzo stepped up and cleaned house. Rebranded the name, replaced half the crew, and made peace with a few enemies.”

“Trying to restore the De Corsi empire?”

“No. Trying to reshape it. Into something leaner. Smarter. And probably worse.”

Zano’s name barely makes a whisper anymore. The De Corsi family’s power fractured the second we dragged him bleeding into the arms of the law. His cousin, Renzo, took the reins—young, sharp, and smart enough to know fear alone wouldn’t hold what was left. He’s been busy salvaging the wreckage, polishing the family name, trying to piece together a legacy Zano pissed away. It’s a shattered image he’s trying to remake, but he knows better than to cross me—or her.

Calista stops. Her breath catches.

Her old studio stands in front of her—reborn. The glass storefront gleams under the morning light, the black walls polished to a mirror shine. A neon sign glows above the entrance in deep red:

INK & IRON Reclaimed. Reforged.

She just stands there.

Still as stone. I pull the black velvet box from my coat pocket and hold it out.

She eyes it suspiciously. "What is this?"

"Your new kingdom," I say, and hand it to her.

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