Page 74 of Vengeful Melodies
I watch her fork pause midair. Her brow furrows, eyes scanning each of us, weighing, calculating. Takoa’s face stays unreadable, quiet. Bash fidgets, leg bouncing under the table like he’s been rehearsing the confession in his head for days. I feel my own chest tighten, pulse quicken.
“You don’t have to answer now,” I murmur, quiet, barely audible. But I reach across the table, brushing her fingers with my thumb. Small contact, grounding, claiming.
She squeezes my hand, a delicate, fleeting gesture. My chest unclenches slightly, and for a moment, all the tension dissolves. She trusts us. She trusts me.
Bash leans forward, voice softer than I’ve ever heard: “We’re all in, Dreya. Not just the fun bits. All of it.”
Her eyes flick from one of us to the next, a mixture of awe, disbelief, and nervousness. “You guys are serious?”
“I’m serious,” I say, thumb brushing her knuckles. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”
She exhales, a soft laugh escaping, pressed between coffee sips and fingers to her lips. “If this ends in matching tour tattoos, I want veto power over font choice.”
Kai chuckles, Bash smirks, Takoa nods faintly, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
I lean back, hands still near hers, watching her smile, the way she tilts her head toward sunlight, hair damp and curling around her jawline. The chaos, the laughter, the little moments—they’re ours. And right now, in the quiet golden morning, in the smell of coffee and bacon and her, music in our veins, and her heart tethered to each of ours—we feel like a band again.
Complete.
We’re still lounging around after breakfast—Kai half-draped over the corner of the booth like a lazy panther, elbows propped on the table as if he owns the sunlight streaming in. Bash is upside down on the floor, feet pressed against the wall, grinning like a damn Cheshire cat, while Takoa pretends to be a shadow in the corner, unreadable as always. I sip my coffee, chest tight, watching Dreya stir in the seat across from me, hair still messy from the shower, cheeks flushed from the heat and the last night’s chaos.
Kai finally breaks the quiet like he’s been sitting on it for a week. “We should take you out,” he says, eyes on Dreya, all soft-focus and dreamy. “Somewhere in the city. Just us and you, Siren.”
Dreya freezes mid-fork lift. “Out? In public?” One brow quirks like she’s trying to calculate the odds of survival.
I lean back against the booth, arm slung over the top, pretending I’m too cool to care—but inside my head, it’s a riot of ‘what-ifs’: hands brushing hers, casual touches in crowded streets, the click of her boots. “Worried someone might recognize us?”
“Or you,” Takoa adds flatly, not even looking up. Sharp as a blade.
Bash flops onto his knees, all limbs and energy, eyes glinting with mischief. “Time for the disguise era, baby.”
Dreya snorts, raising her mug like she’s holding up a shield. “You think you can disguise six feet of tattoos, bleach-blonde chaos, and that mouth?”
Bash gasps, clutching his chest dramatically. “You wound me, Songbird. I could be stealthy. Mysterious. The quiet type.”
Takoa mutters, calm as death, “You could not.”
Kai props his chin on his palm, slow and lazy. “We’ll keep it low-key. Hoodies, sunglasses, ballcaps. You in a wig, maybe a mask. Sexy little spy vibes.”
Dreya huffs, shifting, glaring at all four of us. “I’m still sore. Like, actually limping sore.”
My smirk spreads slow. Bash chokes on his coffee; Kai leans down and kisses her shoulder, teeth grazing, all soft menace. “Want me to carry you?” he murmurs.
“She’ll be sore in all the right ways,” Bash mutters, eyes dark with something filthy, and then he leans back, voice teasing, “Not that she’s complaining last night.”
Dreya groans, drops her fork. “You guys are feral.”
Takoa sips his coffee like he’s omnipotent, calm predator energy radiating off him. “Put on the black boots. Heeled ones. Limp will look intentional.”
I bark a laugh. “Gives you that… just-wrecked, come-back-for-more energy.”
She glares. “I hate all of you.”
“You love us,” I say quietly, heat pressing against my ribs. She does—even if she hasn’t admitted it yet.
Kai’s already on his feet, arms fluid, dangerous, and long-limbed. “Let’s dress her up!”
Twenty minutes later, the lounge looks like a boutique exploded. Wigs, sunglasses, hoodies, ballcaps—chaos incarnate. Kai has plopped a brunette Barbie-style wig on her, insists she looks “deadly.” Bash critiques every piece, gestures and mock commentary, voice full of dark humor. Takoa watches silently, nodding at approval, frowning at disapproval, giving the tiniest smirk when she catches his eye. I lean in the doorway, heart thumping every time she glances in the mirror, tilts her head like a secret is perched on her lips.