Page 12 of Vengeful Melodies (Heaven’s Guilt Revenge Tour Duet #1)
Chapter Twelve
Dreya
The hallway pulses with a dark red light that feels like it’s bleeding into my skin. My heart drums so hard I’m sure everyone can hear it, pounding in my ears like a war cry I can’t control.
I’m walking just behind Wren and Grey, trying to keep my steps steady, trying not to fall apart. But then I smell him.
Bradley.
Like a rotting wound I thought I’d buried long ago. My breath catches, and my throat closes tight as I see him leaning against the wall—smug, full of that same ugly confidence I hated. And clinging to his arm is Amber, all slick hair, sharp heels, and fake smiles.
Why the hell is he here?
I freeze. My name slices through the thick air.
“Always knew you two were fucking,” Bradley sneers, his voice low but sharp enough to cut me open. “That’s why it was so easy to move on. Amber’s better in bed anyway.”
He lifts my old engagement ring from her finger, spinning it like a trophy in his hand.
My fingers curl into fists so tight my nails press into my palms, but I force myself to grip Wren’s hand instead. I need something real—something solid.
“I don’t have time for this, Bradley,” I grit out, voice trembling but fierce. “I need to get to VIP.”
He laughs, ugly and cruel, like a sound crawling under my skin.
“Oh, that’s rich. Boss gave me VIP passes too. Said I deserved a treat after you ditched me at the altar.”
Every word is a knife twisting in a wound I thought was closed.
I glance at Grey, looking for any sign he’ll step in, but Wren’s already moving, jaw tight, eyes cold and sharp. “Is that makeup?” Wren asks, like it’s the dumbest thing in the world, pointing lazily at the faint purple bruise barely hidden under my cheap foundation.
I nearly choke on a laugh.
Bradley’s smug grin fades, his face twisting as rage bubbles up inside him.
Grey steps forward, blocking him like a solid wall of muscle and tattoos.
“You,” Bradley spits through clenched teeth, “mother—”
Before he can finish, Grey’s fist connects, a sharp punch that sends blood splattering across Bradley’s pristine band tee—red like a warning.
My voice drops to steel, trembling but sharp.
“That’s the second time this week your mouth’s gotten you punched. Maybe take the hint.”
Wren shoots me a fierce look, daring me to say more, but I swallow hard and keep moving.
We push past the stunned crowd, the noise swelling around us like a storm as we climb the platform to the stage. My legs shake, but I wrap myself in fake confidence like armor. I have to.
Grey mutters low behind me, rage still simmering. “I’ve wanted to punch that worthless little shit since you came crying into the shop.”
I whisper a shaky thank-you.
Then everything shifts.
The lights drop.
A low hum vibrates through the speakers, deep and hungry, crawling into my bones.
Crimson floods the stage, thick smoke curling like ghostly fingers around towering gothic spires—blackened angel wings, shattered stained glass, rattling chains like whispered curses.
Four silhouettes emerge from the haze.
Alix, behind his throne of drums, eyes locking onto mine—green and glittering with secrets I can’t name.
Sebastian, guitar slung low, a wicked smile playing on his lips, full of danger and promise.
The bassist Kaiser, tall and brooding, tattoos crawling up his neck like thorned vines.
And then Takoa. The lead singer. His presence so sharp it scrapes the air itself.
Shirtless, inked, his long black hair falling over his face until he steps into the red light.
Veins pulse on his hands as he lifts the mic.
“Tonight,” he says, voice velvet-wrapped steel, “we were told someone special was in the crowd.”
His eyes find me.
He says my name.
The crowd gasps, heads whipping my way, buzzing with jealous hunger.
My soul stutters.
Wren squeezes my hand once before placing it in Takoa’s.
I’m led onto the black-glass stage—part lamb to slaughter, part queen ascending her throne.
Takoa pulls me close, lips brushing my ear as the lights cut to black.
“Let’s begin.”