Page 34 of Vengeful Melodies (Heaven’s Guilt Revenge Tour Duet #1)

Chapter Thirty Two

Alix

The sizzle of bacon in the pan fills the quiet kitchen, thick with the smell of smoke and fat, warm and comforting, mixing with the faint, lingering sweetness of Dreya’s shampoo.

Takoa leans against the counter beside me, arms crossed, watching coffee drip slow into the carafe.

Sunlight slants through the tiny window, catching the silver hoop in his eyebrow, tracing the curve of his shoulder and glinting on his jawline.

He’s always calm, but there’s something in the way he’s watching the coffee, and me, and her…

like he’s already thinking five steps ahead.

I flip a strip of bacon, the spatula catching a little grease.

My eyes flick to Dreya even before she enters—just imagining her, hair wet and curling around her cheeks, that soft, flushed skin from last night’s heat.

My chest tightens, throat dry. She’s ours.

All of ours. And yet, somehow, completely hers.

“You’re quiet,” I tease Takoa, nudging him with my elbow.

“I’m always quiet,” he murmurs, voice low. But the twitch of his jaw, the slight narrowing of his eyes, tells me he’s thinking more than he’ll ever say aloud.

“Brooding,” I add, smirking. “Different this morning.”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t need to. I can feel it in the air, in the subtle tension curling around him like smoke.

The coffeemaker gurgles, clicks off. Takoa grabs two mugs, one for him, one for Dreya, adding a careful splash of oat milk to hers, stirring it with a deliberate gentleness that makes my chest ache.

Small, intimate gestures like that are dangerous—they anchor her to him, to us.

We’re all falling, and I feel it keenly.

Then she appears.

Dreya walks in, one of my black button-ups draped over her small frame, soaked and clinging in places, hitting mid-thigh.

Her curls fall loose and wet, plastered to her cheeks, the scent of citrus soap and last night’s heat clinging to her like a second skin.

My breath catches in my throat before I can stop it. She’s radiant, messy, wild—and ours.

Bash greets her first, loud and shameless, pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

Kai sneaks up behind, arms wrapping around her waist, burying his face in her neck.

I watch, chest tightening, as my hand instinctively curls around the back of my chair, fingers tapping in quiet frustration and longing.

She sips the coffee Takoa hands her, eyes fluttering closed, small gasp escaping. That simple act—just being here, drinking coffee with us—reminds me why I’m falling apart inside. That and the memory of skin and warmth, of her between us, of last night.

“I wrote something while we were waiting for you to get out of the shower,” Takoa says, voice low, careful, pride hiding behind his quiet tone.

I glance at him. “Already bringing more music into this?”

“Sin with a heartbeat,” he says, eyes flicking to Dreya. “Dark. Slow. Filthy.”

She tilts her head, intrigued, a soft, amused smirk tugging at her lips. “What’s it sound like?”

Kai pipes up behind her. “Play it later. I want to add a bass solo.”

I smirk at him. “Drums. Real deep kicks. Something that pulses in your chest.”

Bash perks up, already plotting. “Guitar solo after the bridge?”

Takoa sips, unreadable, then finally nods. “Raw. Don’t make it pretty.”

I can’t help but glance at Dreya, tracing her movements—the way she leans into the table, hand brushing my fingers as she lifts her coffee. The world feels electric, spun together with sunlight, steam, scent, sound. Her laughter spills over, soft and melodic, and I realize I’m holding my breath.

Then Kai drops it: casual, daring, impossible to ignore. “So… what are we, Dreya?”

I watch her fork pause midair. Her brow furrows, eyes scanning each of us, weighing, calculating. Takoa’s face stays unreadable, quiet. Bash fidgets, leg bouncing under the table like he’s been rehearsing the confession in his head for days. I feel my own chest tighten, pulse quicken.

“You don’t have to answer now,” I murmur, quiet, barely audible. But I reach across the table, brushing her fingers with my thumb. Small contact, grounding, claiming.

She squeezes my hand, a delicate, fleeting gesture. My chest unclenches slightly, and for a moment, all the tension dissolves. She trusts us. She trusts me.

Bash leans forward, voice softer than I’ve ever heard: “We’re all in, Dreya. Not just the fun bits. All of it.”

Her eyes flick from one of us to the next, a mixture of awe, disbelief, and nervousness. “You guys are serious?”

“I’m serious,” I say, thumb brushing her knuckles. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

She exhales, a soft laugh escaping, pressed between coffee sips and fingers to her lips. “If this ends in matching tour tattoos, I want veto power over font choice.”

Kai chuckles, Bash smirks, Takoa nods faintly, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.

I lean back, hands still near hers, watching her smile, the way she tilts her head toward sunlight, hair damp and curling around her jawline.

The chaos, the laughter, the little moments—they’re ours.

And right now, in the quiet golden morning, in the smell of coffee and bacon and her, music in our veins, and her heart tethered to each of ours—we feel like a band again.

Complete .

We’re still lounging around after breakfast—Kai half-draped over the corner of the booth like a lazy panther, elbows propped on the table as if he owns the sunlight streaming in.

Bash is upside down on the floor, feet pressed against the wall, grinning like a damn Cheshire cat, while Takoa pretends to be a shadow in the corner, unreadable as always.

I sip my coffee, chest tight, watching Dreya stir in the seat across from me, hair still messy from the shower, cheeks flushed from the heat and the last night’s chaos.

Kai finally breaks the quiet like he’s been sitting on it for a week. “We should take you out,” he says, eyes on Dreya, all soft-focus and dreamy. “Somewhere in the city. Just us and you, Siren.”

Dreya freezes mid-fork lift. “Out? In public?” One brow quirks like she’s trying to calculate the odds of survival.

I lean back against the booth, arm slung over the top, pretending I’m too cool to care—but inside my head, it’s a riot of ‘what-ifs’: hands brushing hers, casual touches in crowded streets, the click of her boots. “Worried someone might recognize us?”

“Or you,” Takoa adds flatly, not even looking up. Sharp as a blade.

Bash flops onto his knees, all limbs and energy, eyes glinting with mischief. “Time for the disguise era, baby.”

Dreya snorts, raising her mug like she’s holding up a shield. “You think you can disguise six feet of tattoos, bleach-blonde chaos, and that mouth?”

Bash gasps, clutching his chest dramatically. “You wound me, Songbird. I could be stealthy. Mysterious. The quiet type.”

Takoa mutters, calm as death, “You could not.”

Kai props his chin on his palm, slow and lazy. “We’ll keep it low-key. Hoodies, sunglasses, ballcaps. You in a wig, maybe a mask. Sexy little spy vibes.”

Dreya huffs, shifting, glaring at all four of us. “I’m still sore. Like, actually limping sore.”

My smirk spreads slow. Bash chokes on his coffee; Kai leans down and kisses her shoulder, teeth grazing, all soft menace. “Want me to carry you?” he murmurs.

“She’ll be sore in all the right ways,” Bash mutters, eyes dark with something filthy, and then he leans back, voice teasing, “Not that she’s complaining last night.”

Dreya groans, drops her fork. “You guys are feral.”

Takoa sips his coffee like he’s omnipotent, calm predator energy radiating off him. “Put on the black boots. Heeled ones. Limp will look intentional.”

I bark a laugh. “Gives you that… just-wrecked, come-back-for-more energy.”

She glares. “I hate all of you.”

“You love us,” I say quietly, heat pressing against my ribs. She does—even if she hasn’t admitted it yet.

Kai’s already on his feet, arms fluid, dangerous, and long-limbed. “Let’s dress her up!”

Twenty minutes later, the lounge looks like a boutique exploded.

Wigs, sunglasses, hoodies, ballcaps—chaos incarnate.

Kai has plopped a brunette Barbie-style wig on her, insists she looks “deadly.” Bash critiques every piece, gestures and mock commentary, voice full of dark humor.

Takoa watches silently, nodding at approval, frowning at disapproval, giving the tiniest smirk when she catches his eye.

I lean in the doorway, heart thumping every time she glances in the mirror, tilts her head like a secret is perched on her lips.

Oversized hoodie, sleek black jeans hugging her hips, ankle boots, auburn bob wig—like she just walked out of some neo-noir fantasy. Bash drew a fake beauty mark under her eye, and the sunglasses make her look untouchable, dangerous.

“You’re trouble,” I murmur, grin tight, teeth pressing into my cheek.

“She’s giving celebrity-escaping-scandal,” Bash declares, stepping back proudly, chest puffed. “Secret girlfriend energy. Or deadly assassin.”

“She is our secret girlfriend,” Kai adds, slinging an arm possessively around her waist, like he’s marking territory in front of the whole universe.

Takoa finally puts on his hoodie, tightening the strings so only his eyes peek out. “Let’s move before someone posts us online,” he mutters, voice clipped but amused.

Dreya catches my gaze in the mirror, smirks—the kind that says she knows we’re all insane and somehow loves us for it. My chest tightens. This chaos, this heat, this ridiculous, sunlit mess… she belongs here. And somehow, so do I.

I can already hear Bash whispering some unholy plan for the walk down the street, Kai plotting where he’s going to press a kiss in public, and Takoa’s quiet, predatory grin promising something just as wicked. And I… I can’t wait.