Page 13 of Vengeful Melodies (Heaven’s Guilt Revenge Tour Duet #1)
Chapter Thirteen
Takoa
The woman before me isn’t real. She’s something conjured—summoned straight from the dark dreams that haunt me between tour stops and sleepless nights. A divine torment sent by gods I’ve long since spat on, now laughing in my face as she stands here… on my stage. Our stage.
How the fuck are we supposed to perform with her here—when even the air around her hums like a war drum, thick with tension and the sharp tang of sweat and burnt guitar strings?
Her hand in mine is warm, grounding, and cruel all at once. I grip it tighter than I should before releasing it, like a secret I’m not ready to share.
Kaiser steps forward, masked in shadow, his grin dark and dangerous—like the Devil courting a sinner. The spotlight follows them as he spins her across the stage. She laughs—God, she laughs—and it’s a raw, wild sound that slices through the electric haze.
The crowd loses their minds. But I lose something deeper.
Her laugh strikes me sharper than any drug I’ve ever pushed into my veins. It twists something raw and aching inside me—something ancient and forbidden.
She’s not just a muse. She’s a curse. A hymn. A fucking prophecy wrapped in red lips and stardust.
The moment my eyes land on her, my breath catches—the scent of her skin mingling with the smoke and sweat of the crowd. The heat of the stage presses against my back, but all I can feel is the sudden weight in my chest.
I turn away before I see Sebastian catch her next, my chest tightening like it’s about to shatter. The heat of the stage, the stinging sweat dripping down my face, the relentless pulse of the music—all fade under the weight of what I feel.
I raise the mic. It’s slick with sweat. My sweat.
I don’t shake. I don’t get nervous. This stage is my church.
But tonight… Tonight it feels like we’re performing for a god.
“Tonight,” I say, voice low and soaked in velvet, “we invite the divine into our ritual. Give your fucking souls to the woman lighting this night on fire—Dreya Lorena.”
The crowd erupts—stomping, screaming, crying out her name like she’s salvation.
She blushes as Bash leans into her ear, whispering something soft. She’s led to Alix, waiting at the highest point of our set—a throne carved from ash and steel. He lifts her onto the platform, and for the first time in months… he smiles.
A rare, fragile thing. And it’s for her.
The lights dim to black. Smoke coils around our feet like the stage is breathing, alive and hungry.
The low thrum of bass pulses through the floor, syncing with every heartbeat in the crowd. Then the whisper of synth. Then a slow, ghostly wail.
A deep breath… And then—chaos.
“Closer to the End” begins to rise in the haunting way we created it—to channel every ounce of pain and heartbreak we’ve carried like scars under our skin.
I start the first verse:
“Save me from the silence… That screams when I close my eyes... I lit a match in my lungs just to feel alive… But every breath is fire, and I can't survive.”
Kaiser screams back:
“I'm the echo in your veins… A curse beneath your skin… You pray to gods that never listened— While I rot in the church of your sin.”
Bash’s falsetto floats above the chaos:
“I was the shadow in your sun— The martyr you abandoned when the light came undone… You stitched your grief into my spine… And called it love… one final time.”
Together, we scream:
“You're killing me— With promises you made in screams. Killing yourself just to feel like a queen… But blood on your hands doesn’t make you clean.”
My own voice becomes a whisper, yet it cuts sharp through the noise:
“Why can’t I be the man… you see in your dreams? Why does every ‘forever’ taste like gasoline…?”
Then the break. Alix’s drum solo—thunderous, chaotic, primal—lights strobbing blood-red, setting the room ablaze in a wild symphony of sound and fury.
We all come crashing back together:
“I’m closer to the end than I’ve ever been… Digging through the ash of the life we lived. No resurrection… no holy sound… Just four broken souls and a burial ground.”
Alix’s voice drops to a haunting falsetto before tearing into a gut-wrenching scream:
“No more lies to numb the ache… No more gods to come and save… We all fall down… We all fade away…”
The lights flicker— The final scream hangs in the air like smoke.
The crowd holds a breath—one reverent, collective inhale—before erupting once more in roars and screams and chaos.
But I only see her. Dreya.
Bathed in red light. Breathing heavy. Eyes wide.
Like she’s seen a ghost… or become one.
And I know—we just gave her our souls in song. Now the question is: Will she keep them… Or destroy us all?
My vision blurs as I lose sight of the woman who stole my very breath. The last glimpse of her is facing Alix with a smile that could melt steel—more goddess than woman.
She slides down from the throne and moves to sit beside him, her presence both grounding and incendiary. Together, they reign over my stage like royalty—commanding every inch with silent authority.
The next songs bleed into one another as I try—and fail—to catch another glimpse of her behind me.
Once the last drumbeat fades, I’m swept away backstage—where the air is thick with sweat and perfume, the sharp sting of alcohol, and the low hum of money and expectation waiting for its moment.