Page 43 of Vengeful Melodies

Worship in the ache,

Drink her like she’s shadow wine,

Let her mercy make me break.

Bash hums the warped hymn under his breath — and the words in my head burn darker.

I’m not just writing anymore. I’m confessing.

Bend the knee at midnight,

Body as my creed,

Bleed into my open hands,

Let your ruin be my need.

From the back, the bed groans. I picture her bare skin against sheets, hair spilling over her shoulder. The memory from earlier hits hard — her standing there in front of us, naked and sure, dripping with sex and challenge.

She is no chalice — she’s the poison in the cup,

Sweet enough to drink to death,

Holy enough to damn me twice,

And I’d kneel for every drop.

It goes on until I don’t know if the ink is mine or something older and worse, something we pulled out of the dark together.

By the last chorus, it’s 2 a.m. The three of us are humming it like we’ve been hexed.

Bash’s guitar softens — a confession whispered after the sin. Kaiser slows his tapping, like a priest closing a book.

Exhaustion crashes in. Bash lays his guitar down on the table like an offering to an altar we already desecrated.

“If I don’t sleep, I’ll lose half this.”

Kaiser cracks his neck. “You’re carrying me.”

“Fuck off,” Bash mutters, stumbling toward the bunks.

We drag ourselves up the narrow steps. Bash drops onto his bed boots-on. Kaiser’s gone in seconds.

I climb into mine slow, notebook warm in my hand, still humming the hook like it’s carved into my bones. From the back, there’s one last creak. I close my eyes and pray she’s in my dreams when I get there.

The pen slips from my fingers, the notebook slides from my chest. I’m already half gone when the last thought hits — every line, every word, is just me on my knees at her altar, begging to be ruined.

Chapter Eighteen

Alix

The bus hums beneath us, the road bleeding away from Remington, but inside me, everything tightens like a noose wrapped around my lungs.

I reach blindly for the sheets beside me. Empty. Cold. But the hoodie she left behind still smells like her—pine, sweat, and something darker, something like warning inked on my skin.

I trace the scratches down my back—the ones she left last night, fresh and raw, burning deeper than any scar I’ve ever worn. Not bruises, but holy hell, they’re confessions written in flesh.

Did I go too far? Did I push too hard?