Page 62 of Vengeful Melodies

They don’t know me.

But it doesn’t stop the want from bleeding through their skin like static.

And maybe I’m not sure I want to stop it either.

Kaiser shifts on the couch, giving me his signature crooked smile. “You wear that band shirt better than any of us, Siren..”

I glance down at my makeshift crop top, tied just under my ribs, sleeves rolled and collar widened. “Perks of having scissors and too much time.”

Bash lifts a brow. “You should wear it on stage next time, Little Songbird.”

I smirk, walking toward the mirror near the corner to check my lip gloss, pretending not to notice the way the room tracks my every move. “I’m not the one being screamed at by thousands of people.”

Alix mutters under his breath, “You should be.”

And for one stupid, dangerous second, I wonder what it would feel like—to be theirs. All of them.

To be in the center of their storm, the way they’re crashing into mine.

Jack barks once, breaking the spell, then trots back toward the door.

I clear my throat, schooling my features before I say something I shouldn’t. “Come on. Let’s not keep the Hilton waiting.”

But even as I walk out, I feel them behind me. All that want. All that chaos. All that almost.

Like a tether I never agreed to—but can’t bring myself to cut.

The blacked-out SUV hums low as it slices through LA’s night streets, tinted windows casting everything in a muted, surreal haze. Takoa’s at the wheel—stoic, focused, his tattooed hands gripping the leather like the road owes him something. He hasn’t spoken much since we pulled away from the venue, but then again, he never needs to. His presence always speaks louder than most people’s shouting.

Alix is up front, riding shotgun, lazily flipping through his phone with the window cracked just enough to let the smoke from his cigarette curl out into the darkness.

And in the backseat—me.

Wedged between Kaiser and Bash.

Bash sprawled comfortably to my left, one leg kicked up, arm slung behind me, head turned just enough to flash me that shit-eating grin he’s always wearing when he’s up to no good.

Kaiser’s to my right, warm and golden and way too close, his knee pressed against mine like we’ve been doing this forever. Like this is normal.

It’s not.

My heart’s doing its own thing—fluttering, thudding, skipping like it doesn’t know what the hell to do in this pressure cooker of a car.

No one says anything at first.

Then Bash sighs, dramatic as hell, and tilts his head to look at me. “So, songbird… do we get a post-show review, or are you still stuck on the part where we screamed about bleeding to death and made you feel things?”

I laugh under my breath. “I plead the fifth.”

Kaiser chuckles beside me. “Oh, shefeltit. I saw the way you looked during ‘Burial Ground.’ Eyes glossy. Lips parted.” He leans in a little closer, voice low, teasing. “Don’t worry, it wrecked me too.”

“Wrecked is one word for it,” Bash adds, nudging my other side with a wink. “I’d say possessed is more accurate. I don’t think I blinked once while you were watching us.”

I roll my eyes, but the heat in my cheeks betrays me. I sink a little deeper into the leather seat, the tension pulling tight between us like a wire ready to snap.

Takoa’s voice cuts through the quiet. “You did blink,” he says calmly, eyes still on the road. “Right after the bridge.”

I freeze. So does everyone else.