Page 45 of Vengeful Melodies

Bash leans in, voice low,

“You’re lead, man. But don’t forget who’s got backup vocals—and the fire extinguisher.”

Smoke curls between us, and for a moment, the weight lightens. Maybe we can joke about the wreckage instead of drowning in it.

I rub my neck, still burning with the ghost of her scratches, and admit,

“I’m scared I pushed too hard last night. Maybe I broke something that can’t be fixed.”

Kaiser’s gaze softens, but his words cut deep.

“You don’t fix fire, Al. You let it burn and hope it leaves something worth remembering.”

Bash claps me on the shoulder, grinning wide.

“If she wanted easy, she’d have stayed with Bradley.”

I swallow the fragile hope threading through the dark.

“Maybe she needs us to burn a little before we build something real.”

Silence falls—a quiet thunder—both warning and promise.

I let myself believe she might not run.

But even as that hope blooms, a dark whisper creeps in—what if she’s not runningfromme, buttowardthe chaos she’s always lived inside?

What if I’m not the calm she needs, but just another storm waiting to break her?

I close my eyes, the memory burning hot—the way she stood before us last night, naked, owning every scar, every jagged edge like a weapon.

Her eyes never faltered when Bradley’s hateful stare landed on her, not once.

That moment—that fierce, broken beauty—cemented something in me I can’t shake.

She’s more than what we bargained for.

She’s the reckoning, the destruction, the only chance we have to be something more.

But can I hold on without shattering first?

The question hangs heavy as the road stretches out before us.

And the scratches on my back sting like the only truth I have left.

Chapter Nineteen

Dreya

I don’t sleep. Not really.

My head presses hard against the cold bus window, the glass slick with the faintest drizzle of early morning rain. Outside, the world blurs into streaks of gray and neon—street lamps flicker dimly in the fog and twilight. Wet asphalt flashes beneath the tires, swallowing everything behind us.

Inside, the bus is still. Quiet except for the soft hum of the engine and the rhythmic creak of tires rolling over pavement.

Jack lies curled against my legs, warm and steady. I pulled the oversized blanket around us this morning, hoping it would shield me from the cold creeping in and the relentless spinning inside my head. But blankets don’t hold back memories. They don’t drown the taste of him still lingering on my lips.

I brush my fingers across my mouth. The faint mint of toothpaste can’t erase the sharp tang of last night—his mouth onmine, the rough scrape of stubble against my skin, the heat that refused to quit long after we pulled apart.