Page 53 of Vengeful Melodies

Alix

The air backstage smells like leather, sweat, and the faint bite of whiskey someone’s spilled near the mixing desk. Cases slam shut, cords snake under boots, crew calling cues over the muffled thump of the bass test bleeding through the walls.

Tour life never stops moving. It’s heat and noise and breathing other people’s air for weeks at a time. But tonight, the current running under my skin isn’t from the crowd on the other side of the curtain.

It’s her.

Dreya’s in the middle of the chaos, cross-legged on a flight case, hair falling over her shoulder as she films Kaiser for promo. The way she moves isn’t rehearsed—she doesn’t need to fake charm for the camera, it’s just… there.

“This is Kai Michealson,” she says into her phone, tilting it just enough to catch him leaning in, “our resident bass wizard andpart-time chef. Tonight, he swears not to burn the venue down—on purpose.”

Kai smirks like the devil and drawls, “Can’t promise the same for your eardrums, sweetheart.”

Bash slides into the frame, draping an arm behind her, hand brushing the back of her neck just enough to make my jaw tighten. “And this,” he grins into the lens, “is your favorite guitarist. The one who’ll make your heart race.”

Her lips curve, and she hits him back without missing a beat. “Bold of you to assume.”

He gets that laugh—the one that lights her whole damn face. My pulse hits harder.

Takoa wanders over, steals her phone for a second, and points it at himself. “Tell them the truth—this band’s only watchable because of me.”

They keep her laughing so easily, but she isn’t just surviving in this chaos—she’s ruling it. Feeding off it. And I’m watching her slide right into our world like she belongs here more than any of us.

Kaiser’s at the merch table, sketching in a beat-up notebook between bites of pasta. Dreya drifts over, leaning in. “What are you drawing?”

He turns the page toward her—a sharp-lined butterfly, wings like shadows and light. “You said it was your favorite, yeah? After dogs and cats.”

Her expression softens, something private slipping through. “Yeah… never had a cat, though. Bradley hated them. Said he was allergic.”

Bradley. The ex. I feel my knuckles flex.

Kaiser just tears out the page and hands it to her without asking why. She takes it like it’s worth more than anything in our merch cases.

Bash catches my eye from across the room. It’s not just the smirk—it’s the challenge in it.

I grab my sticks, spin one between my fingers, and walk up to her. “You ever want a cat,” I say low enough for her alone, “I know a guy who can smuggle one on a bus.”

She tilts her head, smiling like she’s testing me. “And here I thought you were just a drummer.”

“I’m a lot of things, Darlin,” I tell her, letting the weight of it hang. Her pupils flare, just a little.

The call comes from side-stage. Time to work.

The noise from the crowd isn’t sound—it’s a physical thing, pressing against the ribcage, shaking the floor. Lights sweep over faces in the dark, sweat already slicking my palms before I’ve even sat at my kit.

She’s there in the wings. Black jeans, boots, fitted tee. Phone ready to catch every note, but her eyes—those are on us.

We tear through the first half of the set. My body’s on autopilot, every strike of the snare locking with Kai’s bass, Bash’s guitar slicing through like a blade. But when Bash glances back and gives the nod, I know what’s next.

Her song.

Dying at Her Altarisn’t soft. It’s heavy, pulsing, dark enough to taste blood on the lyrics. The first hit of my kick drum is a heartbeat under Bash’s opening riff. Takoa’s voice rolls in low, climbing into something ragged and desperate.

The song is about worship that burns you alive. About kneeling for someone who doesn’t even know they’re your god. About dying there gladly.

Every time I bring the sticks down, I’m thinking her name. Every crash is the space between her laugh and the sound she’d make if I pushed her against the wall and took what I wanted.

She leans forward, like the sound is pulling her in. The lights catch the curve of her mouth, the slow way she bites her lip when the chorus hits.