Page 23 of Vengeful Melodies

So I close my eyes.

The sound of the train rattling past the small apartment wakes me to an empty bed. The scent of coffee wafts through the cracked door, and a second voice—deep, unfamiliar—joins Wren’s in the kitchen.

Grey.

I shove the blankets off, scrambling for something to cover my panty-clad ass.

Shit. Shit.

Jack lifts his head from the floor, his tongue lolling sideways in that dopey way that makes him look more stuffed animal than dog.

“Not now, Jack,” I mutter.

My eyes scan the room frantically before landing on a pair of Wren’s black gym shorts. I snatch them up, nearly falling as I hop into them one leg at a time. Real graceful.

I shove my fingers into the tangled mess of my black curls, dragging them into a bun at the top of my head. I refuse to let Grey—or worse, his friend—see me looking like a horror movie extra.Nope. Not happening.

I crack the door open. Jack bolts out like he’s been training for a track meet, no doubt chasing the promise of ear scratches from new hands.

A third voice floats down the hall—smooth, British, and far too amused.

Not Alix.

I round the corner and come face to face with Grey, Wren, and… a beautiful stranger.Behind him is someone I don’t recognize.

And holy hell.

The man is tall—broad shoulders in a fitted black tee that clings to lean muscle, distressed jeans hugging his thighs just right, blonde hair tousled like it’s been kissed by chaos and hairspray. There’s a glint in his blue eyes that could charm a nun out of her vows. And that smirk?

Lethal.

“Morning,” he says, voice rich with a British lilt that curls under my skin. “You must be Dreya.”

I blink. Maybe twice. Maybe I stare too long, but whatever—I’m not sorry.

Yep. I’m going to murder Wren.

I blink. Maybe twice. Maybe I stare too long, but whatever—I’m not sorry.

He extends a hand.

I stand, setting my mug down before I drop it, and take it. His palm is warm, fingers rough in a way that says he plays guitar or knows how to ruin someone sweet.

“Uh… yeah. That’s me.”

The blonde stranger grins. “Oh, shit. Where are my manners? I’m Sebastian—Bash, to everyone else. I’m in the band. I do backup vocals, bass, and look devastatingly good in leather. The others couldn’t make it, so Grey and I drew the short straws for early morning errands.” He pauses—eyes skating from my fuzzy socks all the way to my messy bun like he’s committing every detail to memory. “And I gotta say… if I’d known we’d be walking into this scene, I would’ve at least worn nicer jeans.”

I blink. “Scene?”

“Coffee. Curls. Dangerously cozy vibes.” His grin widens. “Pretty sure that’s how every love song I’ve ever written starts.”

Grey snorts. “Mostly he flirts and causes problems.”

Bash grins, eyes never leaving mine. “Only the good kind of problems.”

Oh.

I’m not blushing. I’m not.