Page 81 of Vengeful Melodies

Kai presses his forehead to mine. “We want your mornings and your laughter and your bad moods, Siren.”

Takoa’s hand slides around my waist. “We want you real, muse.”

Then Alix moves in last, crouching in front of me again, just like before. “Be ours,” he murmurs. “All in. No apologies, darlin.”

I look at all four of them.

My men.

My band.

My heart.

My Salvation.

I nod, barely able to speak. “You better write more songs like that if you expect me to survive this tour.”

Kai grabs me into a hug so fast I squeak, and then I’m laughing, and then Bash is climbing onto my other side, and we’re a mess of limbs and tangled heartbeats and unspoken promises.

And in the corner, the record player crackles to life—Cigarettes After Sex filling the room, soft and aching.

And it’s perfect.

Because this?

This is something I could never have imagined when I won those tickets three weeks ago. Happiness, someone that wants me.. and only me.

Chapter Thirty Four

Takoa

There’s something about this morning that feels lighter.

The kind of light that sinks into your chest, settles behind your ribs, and makes breathing feel easier.

Sun’s just cresting over the LA skyline, casting gold on the windows of the hotel suite as we shuffle around like hungover giants. Bags half-zipped. Coffee half-drunk. Voices rising and falling in a rhythm we’ve all grown into.

It’s chaos—but the kind that feels like home.

I shove a pair of boots into my duffel and zip it closed as Kaiser yells from the bathroom, “Who used my toothbrush?”

Bash’s voice comes right after, unapologetic: “It was purple and looked cool. I had regrets.”

`“You absolute menace!”

“I've had my tongue down your throat and your cock in my mouth.. Don't act like I have germs now.” Bash calls back, as he lays it out there for everyone.

Alix laughs, slinging a hoodie over one shoulder. “Don’t start a war when we’ve got ten minutes before checkout, yeah?”

Across the room, Dreya’s curled up on the couch, legs tucked under her, sipping from a to-go coffee cup with her name scribbled on it—plus four terribly drawn hearts courtesy of each of us.

She’s wearing my hoodie.

Still hits me in the gut every time I see her in it. Girlfriend. Ours. The word tastes like something new. Like something earned.

Wren’s sprawled on the arm of the couch beside her, sipping his drink and watching us with amused detachment. Grey’s sitting cross-legged by the door, helping Dreya knot the strings on one of her bags while they talk about some obscure horror podcast I can’t keep up with.

This—this is what I’ve always wanted. Not the noise or the flashing lights. Not the adrenaline rush of a stage or the roar of strangers screaming our name.