Page 38 of Vengeful Melodies
She sobs, “You. Only yours.”
She shatters around me, and I lose it, spilling inside her with a feral growl, arms crushing her to me as she trembles and shakes beneath me. My cock twitches deep inside her before I finally slip free, her slick and mine running down her thighs.
I’m still catching my breath when Bradley moves—lunging toward her like a fucking idiot.
I’m already spinning, muscles coiled tight with rage, shielding Dreya with everything I have.
“Touch her again, and I’ll fucking kill you.” Her taste still lingers on my tongue, her cunt still dripping down my thighs.
Dreya buries her face in my spine, trembling fingers clutching at my waist.
I take a step forward, towering over that useless fuck. “Try me, Bradley. I’ll bury you in the crowd outside and dedicate the next song to your fucking bones.”
He snarls, stepping forward like he actually believes he can win—until Sebastian’s hand snaps out, smashing him against the wall with a heavy thud.
“You don’t belong here,” Bash hisses, cold and low. “Not in our space. Not near her.”
Bradley spits back, face red, chest heaving. “She’s not yours. You think because you play in a band, you get to fuck with what’s not yours?”
I laugh—sharp, venomous. “You think she’s something to own? No wonder she left you crawling through hell. She doesn’t belong to me… but she chose me. Chosethis.She screamed my name while you watched.”
Dreya lifts her head, eyes like steel. “You watched me cum on his cock,” she spits. “And for the first time, I didn’t feel broken.”
Bradley lunges for her throat, but Wren’s faster. A brutal punch cracks into Bradley’s jaw—bone crunching—sending him crashing into the metal chairs.
“That’s one,” Wren says, shaking out his fist. “Try again, and I’ll make it two.”
Dreya stands behind me—naked, messy, dripping with what we made. Wild hair frames her swollen lips and bare tits, her thighs shining with our marks. She doesn’t hide. She doesn’t back down.
She’s a fucking goddess draped in war paint and sweat. “You hurt me,” she says, voice sharp as a blade. “Broke me and expected me to stay shattered. But you don’t get to crawl back into my life just because you can’t stand someone else picking up the pieces.”
Her gaze locks on me, blazing. “You matter,” she says, voice low but cutting.
It slams into me like a fist to the gut.
Wren steps in closer, eyes scanning her like he’s counting every mark. “We need to get you cleaned up,” he says, steady but edged with fury.
Grey shrugs out of his hoodie and drapes it over her shoulders, blocking the view of her bare skin from anyone still hanging around. “Come on,” he murmurs, guiding her toward the backof the bus. His movements are careful, deliberate—shielding her from every angle like a wall.
Behind us, Bradley’s still groaning, trying to drag himself upright. He doesn’t get far before two of the roadies grab him, shoving him toward the parking lot where pissed-off security guards are already closing in. His curses fade as they haul him out of sight.
Dreya glances back at me over her shoulder, fire still burning in her eyes. “We talk later,” she says—not a question, not a plea. A command.
“Yeah,” I rasp, still tasting her on my tongue, still feeling the ghost of her nails down my back.
Not now. Not when my pulse is still hammering from the feel of her wrapped around me. Not when every part of me is ready to claim her again the second I get her alone.
She showers upstairs in her little room behind the black door while the rest of us linger outside. Bradley’s already been dragged off and barred from ever coming back. Someone orders greasy diner takeout. Bash starts a stupid story, Kaiser chimes in, and I keep my mouth shut—eyes fixed on that door.
By the time she comes back down, she’s quieter. Ate a few fries. Laughed once or twice when Bash aid something crude. But her eyes didn’t stay on anyone for long.
The night air outside the RV hums with muffled guitar strings and low laughter, the guys still hanging out under the glow of the parking lot lights. We’re not leaving Remington until morning, but up here—past the narrow steps and behind the black door—it feels like a different world entirely.
She’s in my hoodie. My hoodie. The same one I’d shoved into her arms earlier when I saw her shiver over takeout with the guys. It swallows her, sleeves hiding her hands, the hood loosearound her face, but her bare legs stretch out across the bed like an invitation I’m not supposed to take.
I’m in loose shorts, no shirt. The dim LED strip along the wall throws shadows over my skin, making the raised lines across my chest stand out like a confession I never planned to give. She notices. Of course she notices.
Her eyes drag over every scar like she’s trying to memorize them. Then she reaches out—slow, deliberate—and her fingertips make contact. A shiver works its way through me that has nothing to do with the cold.