Page 40 of Vengeful Melodies

Sebastian tilts his head. “You slept with her?”

I don’t answer.

Kaiser chuckles low. “Alix did.”

“I know,” Sebastian growls. “We walked in on them after the show. Couch. No shame.”

The memory hits sharp—her hoodie half-off her shoulders, bruises like fingerprints, eyes meeting ours without flinching.

I throw the cigarette into the dirt and crush it under my boot. Silence stretches between us again, sharp and heavy.

Kaiser finally breaks it.

“She’s… dangerous.”

“She’s a fucking miracle,” I say, jaw tight. “And I don’t know whether that scares me more.”

Because here’s the truth none of us want to say out loud: she woke something up in us.

And if she leaves?

That part dies again.

I saw it in Alix’s eyes later, over greasy takeout and Bash’s old tour stories. Wrecked. Like she’d touched something inside him that had been buried beneath drumsticks and heartbreak for years.

“She’s the kind of woman you write songs about,” I mutter. “And the kind you can’t finish the lyrics to because she keeps shifting every time you think you’ve figured her out.”

Sebastian exhales like he knows exactly what I mean.

“Muse,” he says softly.

“Yeah,” Kaiser agrees. “But muses destroy, too.”

We fall into silence again.

Because we’ve all had our poison before—pretty faces with empty promises. Girls who wanted the fame, the chaos, the spotlight—but never the band. Never the music.

But Dreya? Sheseesit. I feel it. Breathes with us when we play. Her pulse syncing with ours onstage. It’s intoxicating.

It’s a fucking problem.

“She’s going to break one of us,” Sebastian says eventually.

“All of us,” Kaiser corrects. “Or none. That’s what scares me.”

I drag a hand down my face and lean my head back against the cold metal of the bus.

“I don't want us to write another heartbreak album,” I whisper.

“We won’t,” Kaiser says. “We’ll write one about obsession. About wanting someone so badly it makes your ribs feel too tight in your own body.”

Sebastian snorts. “You’re not even subtle about wanting her.”

“I’m not,” I admit.

There’s no point pretending. Not now. Not when we’ve all seen the way she walked into the chaos and made it feel like fucking home.

“The question isn’t whether we want her,” I say. “It’s whether she can want us back… without destroying what we’ve built.”