Page 46 of Vengeful Melodies

My skin still aches, raw in places I’d forgotten existed—fingers, thighs, ribs—traces of him marked me like a brutal confession. Those scratches weren’t accidents. They were promises made with teeth and nails.

I breathe deep, tracing invisible lines my mind keeps redrawing. I’m supposed to feel victory—he chose to stay with me last night, held me close in the dark after the chaos, after everything.

But all I feel is chaos clawing at my insides like a feral animal desperate to break free.

The bus jolts slightly and I squeeze my knees tighter to my chest, pressing my forehead into my shins. I want to run, disappear into the empty spaces between the seats, slip out the back door, vanish into the cold morning.

But Jack’s quiet breathing pulls me back. He’s the only thing steady—his furry warmth pressed against my ankle, reminding me that somewhere inside this mess, I still belong.

Soft footsteps on metal make me freeze. The sliding door opens with a whisper.

I don’t look up. I don’t have to.

Takoa sits a few feet away, careful not to crowd me. Legs stretched out, elbows resting on knees, hands wrapped around a steaming mug. The faint scent of chamomile drifts to me, soothing in a way I didn’t know I needed.

Always quiet. Always watching.

Jack doesn’t stir. Silence curls around us—fragile as glass, ready to shatter.

“You weren’t in your bed,” Takoa says softly, voice steady.

I shrug, staring back out at the rain, watching the world blur into a watercolor wash of gray and black.

He doesn’t push. Just sips his tea slowly.

“You left Alix.”

Finally, I glance over. “Keeping tabs now?”

“No.” His voice stays calm. “Trying to understand.”

I want to tell him there’s nothing to understand. Last night was just heat, adrenaline, chaos—all the things swirling when you’re on tour, living in stolen moments between cities and songs.

But I don’t.

“There’s nothing to understand,” I say brittlely. “Just heat. Tour adrenaline. Nothing more.”

Takoa tilts his head, eyes unreadable.

“You sure about that?”

My mouth opens, then closes. The words get stuck in my throat, tangled in fear and hope and everything I don’t want to admit.

I’m not sure anymore.

Not about anything.

Especially not why I keep chasing men who’ve already seen the darkest parts of me—parts I thought I’d hidden forever.

“I don’t know how to do this,” I whisper. “Any of it.”

He nods like he expected that.

“That’s okay,” he says gently. “We’re not asking you to.”

I laugh—short, bitter, sharp like broken glass.

“Aren’t you though? You gave me this job, this chance to be here. You don’t owe me anything. But I owe you everything.”