Page 38 of Vengeful Melodies (Heaven’s Guilt Revenge Tour Duet #1)

Chapter Thirty Five

Dreya

Tw-Subtle mention of Rape, not detailed but there. .

Jack’s soft snores fill the quiet space of my room, his body curled at the foot of my bed like a warm, breathing anchor. The RV hums beneath us, rolling steady through the dark, and for once, I wish it would never stop moving. Like maybe if we just keep driving, the past won’t catch up.

I’m tucked beneath a blanket that smells like Alix—clean linen, warm skin, and the faintest trace of smoke from the stage.

His hoodie drowns my frame, swallowing me in comfort I didn’t realize I was starving for.

My thoughts are a mess, the silence between my ears louder than the growl of the tires.

I feel like I’m floating in a bubble of borrowed calm, and any second it might burst.

Wren is beside me, lounging against the headboard, legs stretched out. He’s playing with the rings on his fingers, spinning them like he’s trying to distract himself from whatever’s clawing at the inside of his chest.

I know that feeling too well.

“You okay, Jupey?” Wren asks softly, voice a low murmur, like saying it any louder might shatter the moment.

I want to say yes. I almost do. But I don’t lie to Wren.

“I think so,” I admit. “Maybe. It’s just... a lot.”

The air between us tightens. Wren nods, patient. Always waiting for me to speak when I’m ready.

“They asked me to be theirs,” I whisper.

Wren eyes meet mine, unreadable but calm. “And?”

“I said yes.” The words feel fragile, like porcelain held between my teeth. “I meant it. Every part of it. But it still feels terrifying. Like I’m standing on the edge of something I can’t name.”

“You’re in love with them,” Wren says—not a question. A quiet truth.

I blink, then nod. “Yeah. I think I am. All of them. In different ways.”

Wren doesn’t flinch. He never does. He just breathes, like he’s processing the weight of it all with me. Then he shifts a little, tension suddenly coiling through his shoulders. Something flickers in his eyes.

“I kissed him,” Wren says.

My heart stumbles. “Who?”

“Grey.” Wren voice is barely there, like saying it out loud might take it away.

There’s a beat. A full breath where I just... see him. My best friend. My other half. The boy who never let me drown—even when I begged him to let go.

“You kissed Grey?” I echo, and the smile tugging at my lips comes not from surprise, but from pure, unfiltered joy.

Wren nods, still fiddling with the edge of the blanket. “We were just... sitting on the roof of the gas station during soundcheck. Talking. Laughing. And then he looked at me like I was the only real thing in the world, and I just... kissed him.”

My throat tightens. “And?”

“He kissed me back,” Wren says, breathless with disbelief. “It wasn’t just a kiss, Dreya. It felt like a promise.”

I reach out and grab his hand, squeezing it tight. “I’m so proud of you.”

Wren lets out a shaky laugh, his eyes glittering with something raw. But then, it fades. That warmth drains from his face, replaced by a shadow. I feel the shift before he even speaks.

“What is it?” I ask, my voice smaller than I intend.

Wren pulls his phone from his hoodie and hands it to me. “I wasn’t going to say anything. But I’ve been getting these... weird texts. They’re about you.”

My blood turns to ice.

I take the phone, the screen lighting up with unread messages. No name. Just a number. Anonymous.

“She’s lying to all of you. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Your little friend is good at pretending. Ask her about New Orleans.”

“He’s coming for her. You’ll all burn if you stay close.”

My fingers go numb.

The words swim. My lungs shrink.

Pretending.

New Orleans.

He’s coming.

Something inside me snaps taut, like an old wound splitting open in the dark. A memory punches its way to the surface—cheap motel sheets soaked in blood, breath caught in my throat, the weight of a hand I couldn’t shake off. I shove it back. Hard. But it clings to my ribs like rot.

A scream claws at the back of my throat, but I swallow it. I bury it deep, beneath the ribs and the scars and the stitched- together pieces of who I used to be. I know that voice. Even in typeface. I know it.

“Jupey,” Wren says, cautious. “Who would send this? What does it mean?”

I can’t breathe.

I close the messages, hand the phone back like it’s burning me. I can’t meet his eyes. Not yet. Jack shifts at the end of the bed like he senses the panic building in me.

“It doesn’t matter,” I say finally, my voice flat and distant. “It’s just someone trying to scare me. Scare us.”

Wren watches me. He doesn’t believe me. Not fully. But he doesn’t push.

“If there’s something you haven’t told me... if someone’s after you, Jupey—”

“I know,” I whisper. “I know. I’ll tell you. I promise. Just... not yet.”

Silence swells.

Jack’s breathing is the only thing anchoring me now. That, and Wren’s presence beside me.

“Okay,” Wren says. “But I’m not deleting the texts. Just in case.”

I nod before my heart can catch up. My pulse is thundering now, fear and memory scraping against my ribs.

I curl into him, resting my cheek on his shoulder. His hand finds mine again—warm, steady, the kind of quiet strength I’ll never stop needing.

“You’re not alone,” Wren says into my hair.

I close my eyes trying to calm the panic that is slowly creeping up my throat and over my spine.

I don’t feel alone.

I feel hunted.

I feel like everything is about to explode around me and I cannot stop the catastrophe.

Wren falls asleep beside me.

His breath evens out slowly, one hand still tangled in mine like some unspoken vow. I wait. Not because I want to, but because I have to. Because that’s the rhythm of this kind of night—stillness first, then the unraveling.

Jack is curled in the crook of my legs, warm and oblivious to the ache behind my ribs. I envy him. The safety. The trust. The blind, animal comfort of belonging.

I stare at the ceiling until the shadows stop moving. Then I slide out from under the blanket like a ghost afraid of being caught.

The floor is cold beneath my feet.

My heart hasn’t stopped racing since I saw the words New Orleans .

I walk quietly to the tiny bathroom and shut the door. Lock it. Sit on the lid of the toilet with my knees pulled to my chest. I don’t cry. I’m past that part.

Now it’s just breath.

Tight. Shallow.

Like there's no space in my body for air.

The panic always starts like this—silent. Creeping. But it doesn't explode the way people think it does. Mine doesn't scream. It strangles.

My chest pulses, ribs fluttering. I count the beats. One, two, three —don’t think about it. Four, five —breathe past it. Six —

But the memory’s already there.

It’s always there.

I was sixteen. Group home. Temporary placement, they called it, like that word ever meant something soft. I remember the way the paint peeled in the corners of the ceiling, the damp rot in the bathroom walls, the sounds of other girls crying into pillows they didn’t own.

But the worst memory—the one I buried so deep it only surfaces in nightmares—I never say out loud.

Only one person ever heard it.

And he didn’t believe me.

He told me I was making it up. That I needed attention. That I was always “playing the victim.”

So I learned to shut up. To live around it. To stitch myself together with secrets and silence and fake smiles.

But I remember it.

I remember him.

The Doctor who was supposed to protect us. Who smiled too wide. Who always found a reason to keep me behind when others left for school activities. To ask me to help clean up. To keep me after dinner. The one who promised to help when he took me into his home under false pretenses.

I remember how the door clicked shut behind me one night. How his breath smelled like instant coffee and rotting teeth. How his hand landed too hard on my shoulder and dragged downward until my pants fell below my knees and I was forced to do things I didn't understand.

I said no. I froze. I didn’t move because of fear. I disappeared into my body like I was watching it happen to someone else.

And when I told... nothing changed.

No one helped.

No one wanted to help.

I never could scream loud enough for someone to actually listen. But by then, I’d learned the lesson:

No one comes.

Not really.

Not when it matters.

So I took matters into my own hands, when he took me back the last time. I took my revenge slicing into his muddy brown eye.

hat was the first time I had a full panic attack. The kind that makes your limbs go cold and your vision tunnel. The kind that steals your name out of your own mouth.

Blood coated my skin like war paint and I ran back to the only safety I could ever rely on since my family was dead and J was alone.. I ran to Wren.

I didn’t even know what was happening.

I thought I was dying.

And sometimes, I still do.

Even now, years later, lying next to men who make me feel wanted, who call me love like it’s a prayer—I still flinch when someone touches the wrong place, the wrong way, the wrong moment.

I still freeze when someone closes the door too quickly. And now... the texts. The threats. He’s coming for me, for revenge or to lock me away again..

What if it’s not about the stalker I know?

What if it’s about him?

What if someone remembers what I tried so hard to forget?

How did he find me?

I shake. My arms wrap around my legs tighter. My nails dig into my skin just to anchor myself. I focus on the ache, on the bite of it, because it’s better than the memory crawling up my spine like a hand I can’t escape.

I don’t want to tell them.

I don’t want them to look at me differently.

I don’t want to be pitied. Broken. Fragile.

I’ve spent too long pretending I’m not still that girl in the blue hoodie, trembling in a bathroom, trying not to exist.

But part of me still is.

The part that panics when the lights go out. The part that shuts down when someone raises their voice. The part that hears a text message ding and flinches like a gun just cocked.

I bury my face in my knees and breathe through it.

In. Out. In. Out.

This is mine.

This moment.

This pain.

But so is the love I’ve found.

So is the safety I feel in their arms—even when I can’t explain why I need it. Maybe I’m not safe yet. But maybe I’m getting closer