Page 39 of Vengeful Melodies

“They look like stories,” she murmurs, voice low, almost reverent. “Like you bled and survived… and kept bleeding anyway.”

My breath catches. I should deflect, make a joke, turn this into something lighter. But I don’t.

“I’m still bleeding,” I rasp. “Just slower now.”

Her gaze doesn’t break. If anything, it sharpens. “What if I want to bleed with you?”

The words land between us like a lit fuse.

I should tell her no. That it’s dangerous. That people don’t just bleed with me—they drown. But my shields crack instead, one by one, until there’s nothing left to hide behind. And in that moment, I know—she could be my ruin, or the love of my life. Maybe both.

“I think you could be,” I admit, voice rougher than I want it to be.

The air feels heavier now. She doesn’t pull away, and I don’t either. Instead, I lean in, slow enough for her to stop me. She doesn’t. Her lips meet mine, not with heat, but with something deeper—like we’re signing something without paper or ink. A vow neither of us is ready to say out loud.

Her hand slides up, fingertips ghosting along the back of my neck. My palm rests against her jaw, feeling the steady beat of her pulse under my thumb.

When we part, she doesn’t say anything. Neither do I. I just shift closer, curling into her side like it’s the only place I fit. Jack hops up, sprawling across my legs with a lazy sigh.

The movie plays quietly, flickering across her face, and I watch her instead. The way her breathing evens out. The way she tucks her knees up a little tighter inside my hoodie. I don’t even realize I’m falling asleep until my eyes close for good, my head resting against her.

And for the first time in a long time, the bleeding feels… bearable.

Chapter Fifteen

Takoa

I light a cigarette I don’t even want and lean back against the tour bus’ outer wall, letting the smoke drift upward into the low amber glow of the parking lot lights. The silence is rare—unnerving, even. Usually after a show, the energy lingers. The pulse of the music. The echoes of the crowd. That fuck-you adrenaline that’s hard to come down from.

But tonight feels… different.

She changed the air in the room.

And now none of us can fucking breathe right.

Footsteps crunch across the gravel, and I don’t need to look to know it’s Kaiser. His presence hums like bass reverb—steady, weighted, vibrating beneath the surface.

“You good?” he asks, voice rough with post-set exhaustion and something else. Wariness, maybe.

I take another drag before answering.

“Define good.”

He doesn’t laugh. Neither do I.

Then Sebastian appears, guitar case slung on his back like a weapon, his jaw sharp and clenched as he joins the circle like we’re about to go into battle instead of smoking a cigarette and pretending we’re not spiraling over a woman.

“So,” Sebastian mutters, “we gonna talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” I deadpan. But we all know what the fuck he means.

Kaiser blows out a slow breath and leans against the van, arms crossed, gaze focused far beyond the fence line. “She’s not just a groupie.”

“She’s not a groupie at all,” I snap before I can stop myself.

They both glance at me.

Yeah. That slipped out too fast.