Page 20 of Vengeful Melodies (Heaven’s Guilt Revenge Tour Duet #1)

Chapter Twenty

Takoa

She looks at me like I’ve given her something she doesn’t know how to hold. And maybe I have.

Maybe I’m just as reckless as she is—offering steadiness I don’t always feel, pretending the fire under my skin isn’t raging every time she steps too close.

Since my hand brushed hers on that stage, and our eyes locked—like I was seeing a woman I shouldn’t want, but can’t stop wanting, even though I barely know anything about her.

It could be a disaster. And yet, I welcome it. Foolishly, like a moth to flame.

I stay where I am—elbows on my knees, voice low, because she doesn’t need another man trying to own her pain. She needs someone willing to stay inside it with her.

So I do.

Even when my chest aches with all the words I swallow instead.

When she whispers, “I don’t want to be a mistake,” something inside me fucking snaps.

She doesn’t see what I see. Doesn’t see how she’s calm amid chaos—the thread stitching together the broken edges of this band, tying us to something we didn’t know we were missing until she showed up.

She’s scared. And, fuck, so am I.

I’ve lived inside fear my whole life. Fear of losing the music. Fear of losing myself. Fear that someday, everything I’ve built will just echo empty noise in an abandoned room.

But she’s not noise. She’s sound.

Real, vibrating, aching sound—raw and sacred and alive. Something I didn’t even realize I was waiting for.

So I keep my hands to myself. Even when all I want is to trace the line of her jaw, to show her she’s not a mistake—she’s a beginning.

When she says, “I don’t want to break this,” I give her the only truth I’ve got: “Then don’t. Just… build it differently.”

Because whatever this is between us—it doesn’t need rules. It just needs honesty.

And in this moment, watching her finally draw a full breath, like she’s surfacing from drowning— She’s the most honest thing I’ve ever seen.

I can hear songs in my head already—not for the crowd, not for the stage—for her.

Because sometimes the muse doesn’t burst in screaming. Sometimes she stumbles in—scared, soft, unsure. And all I want is to protect the sound she makes when she finally lets herself breathe.

The late afternoon light slips through the studio windows in slanting gold beams, painting dust motes that float like ghosts in the stale air.

The faint tang of sweat, old leather, and lingering cigarette smoke clings to everything—reminders of the road we’ve traveled and the chaos that follows us like a shadow.

She moves like she’s carrying the weight of a thousand storms, collapsing onto the spare couch with a slow, ragged breath.

Exhaustion hums through her muscles, raw and honest. The soft thump of Jack’s paws on the floor and his steady, warm presence beside her feels like the only thing tethering her to this moment.

I sit nearby, clutching Beast and Briar —one of my favorite books, a dark weave of power and pain and impossible beauty. Its pages whisper secrets I’m both drawn to and afraid of, much like her. I flip the worn paper slowly, but my gaze drifts again to her.

She’s a wildfire wrapped in silk, fierce even in sleep, fragile beneath the surface. There’s a chaos inside her I want to soothe but can’t claim—something jagged and beautiful that scares me, because I know all too well what it means to be broken and burning at the same time.

Voices and laughter drift from the front of the bus, faint and distant—Bash’s British drawl slipping through with a rough joke, Kaiser’s quiet chuckle riding the edges of their wild energy.

But here, in this small pocket of calm, it’s just the hum of the road, the whisper of music from her headphones, and the turn of pages in my hands.

The noise outside feels like a world away, but inside me, the storm rages—questions, fears, and a stubborn hope tangled in the same breath. I wonder how much she sees, how much she feels beneath her guarded gaze. How much she fights just to breathe in a world that’s already tried to burn her down.

She stirs beside me, the slow rise and fall of her chest matching the steady rhythm of Jack’s breathing.

And in this fragile silence, I know it’s more than the music that’s keeping us alive on this endless road. It’s the storm raging beneath our skin—the kind that can either tear us apart or carve something fierce and lasting from the wreckage.

Maybe, just maybe, we’re walking right into the eye of it.