Page 27 of Vengeful Melodies (Heaven’s Guilt Revenge Tour Duet #1)

Chapter Twenty Seven

Takoa

The stage lights dim, a breathless hush rolling through the crowd like the calm before the storm.

Sweat clings to the back of my neck as I grip the mic, heart hammering in my chest. The adrenaline from the set pulses through me, but this—this is the moment I’ve been waiting for.

To get this off my chest before we continue on this tour.

The unreleased track. My fucking confession.

I glance back at the guys—Bash is grinning like a devil, fingers dancing over his strings as he throws a wink at Kaiser, who leans into it with a slow, provocative roll of his hips.

The crowd eats it up, screaming louder as the tension on stage bleeds into something palpable, primal.

They flirt like the show is foreplay, and in a way, it is. For all of us.

But this song? This one is for Dreya.

The lights drop. Red. Raw. My chest pounds so hard I swear it’s going to crack open. I grip the mic like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to this world—and to her. The intro hums soft—ghostlike. My voice breaks the silence.

Dreya. Hoodie slipping off one shoulder, hair wild, lips parted, standing in the wings like she’s both punishment and salvation. The crowd roars, but I don’t hear them. I hear her.

Every lyric we wrote this night, every chord, every scream—Bash, Kaiser, Alix, and me—we bled into it. We ripped ourselves open. And now, I’m performing it for her. Every note, every word, every raw confession is hers.

“I want to feel your teeth on my skin, Taste the sin I’ve hidden in you… Every gasp, every shiver, A confession I can’t hold back…”

I feel her inhale. Fuck. She feels it . She knows .

Bash hisses, voice low and dark: “I traced your spine with my tongue in dreams, Woke with my own blood on my hands… We wrote this in fire and need, And you’ll feel every burn tonight.”

Kaiser rips a riff, jagged, slicing through me: “I laid my scars bare, Let you step on them, Let you carve me into yours… Every scratch, every bruise, A map to how I want you.”

Alix slams the drums, heart and rage in every strike, echoing in my chest: “Every beat a plea, Every crash a scream for what we’ll never have… And yet we want it all, Messy, raw, yours in our hands.”

I lean into the mic, voice ragged, trembling with desire and obsession: “I want to ruin you and be ruined in turn, Drown in the echo of your body, Want you to leave me broken and trembling, Carve your name into my chest Until there’s nothing left of me but fire and need.”

Bash screams next to me, unhinged: “We bled for you, girl, Every drop of ourselves Spilled into this song, So you could see us, See every broken, desperate inch…”

Kaiser rips harder. Alix crashes the drums like he’s shattering his own bones. I can barely think between breaths, between screams, between glances at her. My chest aches, and I know— she knows .

“Ruin me. Ruin me without mercy. Leave me raw. Leave me bare. Make me yours, make me nothing, Because if you speak… I’ll believe I was made for you.”

The last note dies. Silence presses in like a living thing.

My lungs burn, arms tremble. Bash collapses onto a floor knees pressed into the black tile floor, hair plastered to his forehead.

Kaiser leans against the wall, strumming the final echoes from his strings as if the song is still clinging to him.

Alix slumps over the drums, chest heaving, still feeling the pulse in his veins.

I can barely stand. I can feel it in my chest. But all I’m thinking about is her.

Dreya .

Standing somewhere in the wings, heart pounding, lips parted, eyes wide.

Did she hear it? Did she know?

That it was always about her like fate was playing a cruel wicked joke before bringing her to us, broken souls.

The silence after the storm always feels wrong.

The dressing room smells like sweat, leather, and cheap tequila. We’re spread across mismatched couches and floor cushions, bodies loose, laughter echoing louder than the music still playing from someone’s phone.

Alix is nursing a beer, one foot propped on the coffee table, the other tapping a silent rhythm like he’s still on stage. Bash is slumped beside him, shirt half-unbuttoned, a lazy grin curving his lips as he tosses an empty mini bottle into the trash and misses.

Kai’s got his head tilted back against the wall, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth. His fingers toy with a pick he’s been flipping between his knuckles all night.

The buzz is warm, slow, but not enough to drown out the static under my skin. That damn song still vibrates through me like an echo that doesn’t want to let go.

I glance down at my hands—still faintly trembling. I don’t get stage nerves. Not anymore. But that song, the way it poured out of me last night after Dreya looked at me like I was made of both fire and wreckage… it hit something raw.

“You really finished writing that last night?” Bash murmurs beside me, voice hoarse from screaming and booze.

I nod slowly, not looking up. “Wasn’t a choice.”

Kai hums. “Some people... they walk into a room and flip your whole damn frequency.”

“Yeah,” Alix mutters, leaning forward, his eyes hazy but sharp. “She walks like silence and talks like a fucking storm. Can’t tell which one ruins me more.”

I smirk faintly, staring at the ring of condensation forming beneath my untouched glass.

It’s only been three weeks. Six shows. A thousand moments strung too tightly together.

And yet… it’s hard to breathe without noticing if she’s near. Hard to speak without wanting her eyes on me. It's hard to write anything that isn’t her.

The air shifts before I even hear the door.

The guys don’t notice right away, but I do. I feel her.

The hush that follows is heavier than footsteps.

Dreya steps through, back-lit by the hallway’s golden light, a strand of hair loose against her cheek, her expression caught somewhere between tired and alert.

Jack trots in behind her, tail wagging like this was all just a casual stop.

She holds up a jangling set of keys, brows raised. “Your ride, gentlemen.”

And just like that, the haze becomes a wire pulled taut in my chest.

Kai sits up straighter. Alix stretches like a goddamn cat. Bash smooths his hair, lazy and too late.

None of us say it. None of us have to.

She’s close—and that alone is enough to wreck every version of calm we pretend to carry.

She’s in the doorway, eyes wide, lips slightly parted, backlit like a goddess dipped in gold.

Jack winds around her ankles, tail wagging.

The words are simple. Mundane. But my chest collapses with relief and something far sharper—hunger.

She’s seen everything—the sweat, the raw desperation, the four of us unraveling.

The mess we are: empty bottles, sticky skin, muscles trembling, hair clinging in wild strands.