Page 67 of Vengeful Melodies

She laughs at a teasing comment from Bash, throwing her head back, neck exposed, curves catching the dim light. Every inch of her seems designed to unravel us, and I feel it—the room vibrating with our restraint, the quiet anticipation buzzing through the air like static.

By the end of the first round, the tension is almost unbearable. Every glance holds weight. Every brush of skin leaves a trace. The game has turned from playful to a charged dance of intent.

We pause, catching our breath, sipping whiskey, laughing but hollowly, each of us aware of the electric pull Dreya exerts. The shirt rides just slightly as she shifts on the couch, teasing withoutknowing—or maybe knowing exactly—how close she’s pushing us to the edge.

And none of us want to step back. She laughs at something Bash says, tilting her head back, neck exposed. That laugh is a fuse to the fire in my chest. I catch the faint scent of her perfume—vanilla with something darker underneath—and it makes the air feel too tight, too close. She meets my gaze afterward, daring me, teasing me, knowing exactly what she’s doing.

And I am unraveling.

The suite tastes like whiskey and her, thick and sharp, heavy. Dreya shifts, shirt riding higher, teasing more of her thighs. A soft gasp from Bash makes me smirk; Kai’s exhale comes a beat later, deliberate, and Takoa’s jaw tightens as he audibly inhales when her small frame adjusts. She steals our breath in unison, and I can feel the pulse of it in the room, in the rhythm of our own bodies.

I lean forward, forearms on my knees, voice low but cautious. “We should stop before we cross a line we can’t walk back.”

“Who says we want to?” Bash replies, smooth, teasing, dangerous all at once.

Dreya’s smile falters just enough to show the flicker of want, maybe a trace of fear, before she buries it under bold, reckless perfection.

“You think this would ruin things?” she asks, lips curling.

Bash leans forward, grin sharp and mischievous. “Not a chance, Little Songbird.”

Kai chuckles softly, warm and deliberate. “Feels more like what we’ve been circling since day one, Siren.”

A pause. Silent, heavy, electric.

She stands slowly, tugging the hem of her shirt ever so slightly—teasing, knowing—and turns toward the hallway. “I should change for bed.”

“You already look like sin incarnate,” Bash murmurs from behind her.

She pauses in the doorway, half-lit by the suite’s golden glow. “Then maybe you should pray harder,” she says, before disappearing.

We don’t move. Not one of us. Because if anyone goes after her… the line isn’t just crossed. It’s shattered.

“I’m not drunk enough for this,” I mutter, running a hand down my face.

Kai snorts, a lazy, amused sound. “You’re drunk enough.”

Bash slaps a hand on his thigh, standing. “Screw it. Another round. But if she comes back in anything tighter, I’m starting a petition to ban all band shirts, Little Songbird.”

We all laugh, hollow, tight at the edges. The truth is… none of us are laughing inside.

We’re shaking apart.

And she’s the match.

Chapter Thirty

Dreya

The mirror fogs around me as I drag the comb through my curls, breath catching at the low flicker in my eyes. My skin’s flushed. My blood’s loud. There’s no denying it anymore—something’s shifted.

Something cracked open between the laughter, the kisses, the dares whispered like confessions.

And maybe I should be afraid. Maybe I was, for a heartbeat. But now?

Now I want to watch them come undone.

The shirt I tug over my head is black and barely clings to modesty. Thin as sin, cropped high enough to expose a sliver of underboob and tight enough to highlight the sway of my chest when I walk. I leave it off the shoulder, skin bare and begging. Below, only a pair of deep red sleep shorts cling to my hips likea secret, riding dangerously high. When I re-enter the room, silence falls like a guillotine.