Page 84 of Vengeful Melodies

He’s coming.

Something inside me snaps taut, like an old wound splitting open in the dark. A memory punches its way to the surface—cheap motel sheets soaked in blood, breath caught in my throat, the weight of a hand I couldn’t shake off. I shove it back. Hard. But it clings to my ribs like rot.

A scream claws at the back of my throat, but I swallow it. I bury it deep, beneath the ribs and the scars and the stitched-together pieces of who I used to be. I know that voice. Even in typeface. I know it.

“Jupey,” Wren says, cautious. “Who would send this? What does it mean?”

I can’t breathe.

I close the messages, hand the phone back like it’s burning me. I can’t meet his eyes. Not yet. Jack shifts at the end of the bed like he senses the panic building in me.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say finally, my voice flat and distant. “It’s just someone trying to scare me. Scare us.”

Wren watches me. He doesn’t believe me. Not fully. But he doesn’t push.

“If there’s something you haven’t told me... if someone’s after you, Jupey—”

“I know,” I whisper. “I know. I’ll tell you. I promise. Just... not yet.”

Silence swells.

Jack’s breathing is the only thing anchoring me now. That, and Wren’s presence beside me.

“Okay,” Wren says. “But I’m not deleting the texts. Just in case.”

I nod before my heart can catch up. My pulse is thundering now, fear and memory scraping against my ribs.

I curl into him, resting my cheek on his shoulder. His hand finds mine again—warm, steady, the kind of quiet strength I’ll never stop needing.

“You’re not alone,” Wren says into my hair.

I close my eyes trying to calm the panic that is slowly creeping up my throat and over my spine.

I don’t feel alone.

I feel hunted.

I feel like everything is about to explode around me and I cannot stop the catastrophe.

Wren falls asleep beside me.

His breath evens out slowly, one hand still tangled in mine like some unspoken vow. I wait. Not because I want to, but because I have to. Because that’s the rhythm of this kind of night—stillness first, then the unraveling.

Jack is curled in the crook of my legs, warm and oblivious to the ache behind my ribs. I envy him. The safety. The trust. The blind, animal comfort of belonging.

I stare at the ceiling until the shadows stop moving. Then I slide out from under the blanket like a ghost afraid of being caught.

The floor is cold beneath my feet.

My heart hasn’t stopped racing since I saw the wordsNew Orleans.

I walk quietly to the tiny bathroom and shut the door. Lock it. Sit on the lid of the toilet with my knees pulled to my chest. I don’t cry. I’m past that part.

Now it’s just breath.

Tight. Shallow.

Like there's no space in my body for air.