Page 51 of Vengeful Melodies

The soft clatter of plates and the low murmur of voices fill the wide living area of the bus. Takoa moves smoothly around the kitchen island, sliding a plate toward Dreya like it’s second nature—careful, precise. It’s a quiet kind of control, but you can feel it. She looks up at him, tired eyes flickering with gratitude.

Alix strolls over with a glass of water, setting it gently in front of her. “For the queen of the night,” he says with that sly smile, then settles nearby, tapping a steady rhythm on his small drum pad resting on the counter.

Kaiser moves between the open-plan kitchen and the dining table, making sure everyone has plates, forks, napkins—checking in with quick, subtle eye contact before slipping into the seat beside Dreya on her right. I take the spot on her left, close enough for our arms to brush lightly as we reach for the food spread out before us.

Her hair shifts, and the soft glow from the LED strip lighting overhead reveals a faded scar curving along the side of her neck. I catch myself watching—the way something so raw and unpolished hides beneath her softness. Her lips part just slightly as she inhales deeply, like she’s swallowing down a nervous tremor beneath the surface.

Freckles sprinkle her cheeks, catching the gentle light, and the subtle scent she carries—earthy and faintly spicy, mingled with the clean freshness of the hoodie wrapped around her—wraps around me like a quiet magnet.

“You okay?” I murmur, keeping my voice low, just for her.

Her eyes meet mine. There’s a flicker of vulnerability mixed with something fierce. “Trying to be.”

Around us, the others chatter about the show—about the song we hammered out late last night still simmering in the air. There’s a buzz of hope and tension woven through every word.

I lean toward Kaiser with a smirk. “Hey, you saving me the last piece of that hellfire chicken or what?”

He grins, tossing me a look. “Golden retriever might be loyal, but I’m not sharing dinner, Bash.”

The room fills with laughter—easy, genuine, but layered beneath it all is something fragile. I keep stealing quick glances at Dreya—the way her fingers trace the rim of her plate, how she leans just enough into the moment while shadows swirl behind her eyes.

Takoa sits across the room, calm and quiet, watching like he’s cataloguing every breath and word.

This is our family. Raw, broken, tethered by something fierce.

And it’s not just the show I’m worried about.

It’s her.

Chapter Twenty Two

Dreya

Dinner’s long gone, but the faint, rich smell of garlic, butter, and roasted vegetables still lingers in the bus. Kaiser’s earlier cooking—tender butter chicken with mashed potatoes and crisp veggies—sits like a warm memory in my stomach. The table’s cleared, the guys are scattered, and the hum of the tour bus feels like it’s rocking us into a lazy evening.

Bash leans against the counter, flashing his signature crooked grin. “Alright, newbie, time to teach you arealskill.”

Apparently, that skill is…guitar.

I’m sitting cross-legged on the couch, Bash’s battered acoustic balanced on my thigh. His calloused fingers close over mine, guiding them into something that’s supposed to be a chord.

“Not bad, Song bird, ” he says, squinting, “but your G sounds like it got drunk and fell down the stairs.”

“Iamdrunk and falling down the stairs,” I shoot back.

Kaiser leans over the back of the couch, smirking. “That’s her new band tagline.”

Alix’s voice drifts from behind the drum kit in the corner. “Trade me. Let her try something easier before Bash ruins her confidence.”

Bash gasps in mock offense but surrenders the guitar. I follow Alix to the kit, slipping onto the warm stool.

“Alright,” he says, handing me a pair of sticks. “Think heartbeat. Keep it steady—no fancy shityet.”

I tap along, the rhythm humming up through my wrists. It’s clumsy, but the sound is addictive.

“Not bad,” he says, his smile carrying that spark of mischief. “Just… maybe don’t strangle the sticks, Darlin.”

I smile softly, handing the sticks back to Alix before sliding off the warm stool and plopping onto the couch.