Page 45 of Vengeful Melodies (Heaven’s Guilt Revenge Tour Duet #1)

Chapter Forty

Alix

Pasadena.

It’s hotter than hell’s left armpit, and the sun pours through the RV’s windshield like molten glass. Too bright, too sharp. The kind of light that exposes everything—every scar, every secret, every crack we’d rather keep hidden.

We roll into the venue lot at noon, and I feel it before the wheels even stop turning. The shift.

It slides under my skin like static. A weight pressing down, whispering that the city’s watching us. Like it knows who we are, what we’ve done, what we’re carrying.

“You good?” Grey calls from the driver’s seat, lollipop jammed in his mouth, tattoos inked down his arms like warnings.

I grunt. Not about to admit the air in here tastes too thick to breathe. I shove off the bench and stomp into the heat, boots hitting pavement like gunfire.

The lot’s alive. Crew stringing barricades, staff sprinting with headsets and clipboards. All of it buzzing, tense, about to snap.

The guys spill out one by one. Kaiser, restless, guitar case like an extra limb. Bash, sunglasses, swagger, smirk cocked at the world like he’s already bored. Takoa last, deliberate, green eyes glinting in the sun—cool, lethal, unreadable.

And then her.

Dreya.

She steps off the RV slow, like she doesn’t quite trust the ground to hold her. Hoodie slipping off one shoulder, legs bare in shorts that make my pulse throb. Jack at her side, phone clutched tight, eyes sweeping the lot like she’s bracing for ghosts.

It wrecks me.

She shouldn’t have to live like that. Not here. Not with us.

I close the space between us, dropping my palm to the small of her back. Her heat seeps through the cotton, electric. My voice scrapes low. “You stay close to me today, Darlin’. You hear?”

Her gaze lifts. There’s sweat on her skin, tension carved into her shoulders, but her voice holds steady. “I hear you. Loud and clear.”

Good. Because I’m not letting her out of my sight.

Not after the leak. Not after the texts she won’t show us. Not after that night on the bus when she shattered in our hands—when we all tasted what it meant to worship something real.

We move together across the lot, one organism—tight, quiet, dangerous. Crew parts like the Red Sea. They know. Everybody does.

Inside, the venue is cooler, shadows stretched long across the stage. My drums wait in the distance, my sanctuary, my sin. But my eyes stick to her. Always her.

She drifts to Bash’s side, his sunglasses slipping as he flashes her that grin, fingers sliding into hers like it’s the most natural thing in the world. She laughs, but her eyes betray her—flicking to the exits, the corners, the dark places where danger lingers.

Takoa notices too. He moves slow, deliberate, sliding an arm over her shoulders, murmuring something into her hair. Her chest loosens, just a fraction, as she exhales.

And for one second, the mask slips.

It should make me jealous. Instead, it makes something darker coil in my chest. Because it doesn’t matter whose hand she’s holding or whose shoulder she leans on. She belongs to all of us now. Whether the world understands it or not.

Kaiser sidles up beside me, chewing on candy, eyes tracking the same scene. “You feel that?” he mutters.

“Yeah.”

“It’s gonna blow soon.”

“I know.”

We fall quiet. Not because we’re calm. Because we’re ready.

Bash’s voice cuts the silence, cocky as ever. “Careful, Alix—you glare any harder, you’re gonna set her on fire.”

I shoot him a look sharp enough to kill. “Keep running your mouth and I’ll set you on fire.”

He smirks wider, tugging Dreya closer just to spite me. “Maybe she’d like to watch.”

Takoa snorts. “Or join in.”

Her cheeks flush, and my chest squeezes tight. Not anger. Not jealousy. Something hungrier.

Because they’re not wrong.

We orbit her, all of us. Different pieces of the same storm. And she’s right there in the center—our anchor, our ruin, our fucking salvation.

This isn’t just another city. Another gig.

This is the calm before something mean. The moment before the trap springs.

But when the lights drop tonight, when the crowd screams and the stage catches fire— we won’t just be playing for them.

We’ll be playing for her.

And if the bastard in the shadows thinks he can take her—

he better pray the music’s loud enough to drown out his screams.