Page 54 of Vengeful Melodies

Bash rips through his solo like he’s trying to set the stage on fire. I hammer the drums behind him, keeping the ground under his feet.

And she’s still watching.

By the end, the crowd’s screaming, fists in the air, voices echoing the last line:“I’d die at your altar again.”

We leave them in the dark, the feedback ringing in my bones.

The lights dim backstage, the buzz of the post-show fading to a dark hum. The corridor is narrow and cool—far from the chaos of the stage, but no less charged.

I’m watching Bash corner Dreya against the wall, his voice a low growl only she can hear. The way his fingers graze the side of her neck, barely touching, but enough to make her breath hitch.

I step in close, leaning on the opposite wall, the space shrinking until we’re trapped in a triangle of heat and shadow. Dreya’s eyes flick between us, wide and bright, lips parting as she tries to catch her breath.

Bash smirks, voice dripping with something dangerous. “You like that song, don’t you?Dying at Her Altar... It’s about falling hard, burning slow. Just like you.”

I add in with a grin, voice low and teasing, “You made it through the whole show without fainting. That’s gotta count for something.”

She laughs, the sound raw and delicious, and it cuts through the tension like a blade. Her fingers brush my arm, light and electric. “I’m full of surprises.”

Bash steps closer, his breath warm on her ear. “You’ve got us both wrapped around that smile.”

My hand finds hers, fingers curling with deliberate softness. “Careful. We’re dangerously close to rewriting that song—right here, right now.”

Her cheeks flush a deep crimson. The silence stretches, thick and taut—every nerve ending on fire.

I want to close the distance, taste that sharp edge of danger on her skin, feel the pull that makes the world shrink to just us.

But we don’t cross that line tonight.

Instead, Bash trails a finger down her arm, a promise and a dare. “We’re playing for keeps.”

I watch her swallow hard, eyes darkening with something fierce.

This is more than a tour, more than a band.

It’s a battleground.

And she’s the prize that none of us want to lose.

The night hangs heavy around us, electric and aching.

And the real show? It’s just beginning.

Chapter Twenty Four

Kaiser

The RV hums under us, engine vibrating through the polished steel and leather of the two-story beast we call home. Upstairs is the sleeping quarters—messy bunks, half-packed bags, and the faint smell of sweat lingering in orners. Down here, the lounge stretches wide, warm light bouncing off black leather seating and dark wood panels.

Dreya is sprawled across the couch, Jack tucked against her side, his head resting on her lap. The oversized band hoodie hangs loose from one shoulder, high-waisted shorts exposing her legs, curls falling wild around her face. Her fingers tap a rhythm on her tablet as she scrolls through promo clips, annotating here and there, her lips moving almost unconsciously with the words she mutters. I notice the way her mouth moves when she takes a drink from the bottle beside her—slow, deliberate, the curve of her bottom lip catching the light.

Takoa slides beside her, careful, casual, knees brushing hers. He reaches under the side table, pulling out a small, black-wrapped package.

“Late birthday present,” he murmurs, voice low, almost a growl, leaning just slightly toward her so his shoulder brushes hers.

Dreya lifts a brow, smirk curling at the corner of her mouth. “You remembered?”

“Of course,” he says, deliberate, hand steady despite the tension in the air. “Thought you’d like it.”