They start to file out, one by one. Jake gives me a curt nod; Xayden doesn’t look back. Todd’s stride is brisk, his focus already shifting.
But West lingers. He pauses in the doorway, turning just enough to catch my gaze. His expression is unreadable, but his words land like a blow. “Did you tell your boyfriend about me,Ash?” he murmurs, his voice low, accusing, and cutting. “About the way you melted in my arms?”
Before I can respond, he turns and walks away, leaving me rooted in place, the echo of his words reverberating in the silence.
I sink into the nearest chair, the strength I’d held onto during the meeting slipping away. I exhale shakily, my hands trembling as I set my notes down.
It’s not like it would matter if he knew I didn’t have a boyfriend. West’s words weren’t about my ex—they were a weapon aimed straight at me, and they hit their mark.
CHAPTER 7
Jake
The tensionin the room is thick enough to choke on. Rehearsals aren’t supposed to feel like this—strained, like every note we play is a step closer to setting off a mine. The song we’ve played a thousand times feels different now, heavier. Because she’s here.
Ashlyn stands at the edge of the studio, tablet in hand, like she’s trying to blend into the background. But there’s no blending for her. Not with us. Not with me. She’s a live wire in the room, sparking something in all of us we can’t quite name, though we sure as hell feel it. Todd agreeing to have her here for our rehearsal so she can take notes—it has us all on edge.
My fingers pluck the strings of my bass, the vibration reverberating through me, grounding me as I try to focus on the music instead of her.
Todd’s voice growls into the mic, every lyric painful and raw, cutting through the thick tension in the room. His scent lingers faintly in the air, honeyed amber threaded with an edge of frustration, heady enough to taste. And that’s saying something because, normally, I can’t smell any of them. Only whenemotions are strong can I pick the scents out, which probably means they are way stronger for Ashlyn’s omega nose.
West stands beside him, his grip on the guitar tight, his shoulders tense. He plays like he’s trying to exorcise something, the cords digging into his fingers. His almond and vanilla and whiskey musk curls through Todd’s, blending into a mix that’s heavy and smoldering, rife with unspoken words and emotions they refuse to name.
Behind them, Xayden keeps the beat, each strike of his sticks precise but devoid of his usual fluidity. His leather-and-spice scent cuts through the others, bold and dark, but there’s a rigidity to it now, a tension coiled in every movement.
As a beta, I don’t feel the overwhelming pull their musks would have on an omega, but I still sense it—the way it clings to the air, suffocating, tangled with resentment and something dangerously close to longing.
And then it happens. I catch the faintest whiff of strawberries and cream, subtle but unmistakable, seeping into the storm of their scents like a thread of sunlight piercing through a thundercloud. Ashlyn. Her perfume is so achingly familiar, it twists something inside me, dragging me back to a time when this blend wasn’t chaos—it was home.
The sweetness of her scent doesn’t soothe the tension; it sharpens it, pulls everything into unbearable focus. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, standing with her calm, composed mask firmly in place, her attention on the notes she’s taking, but I know better. She feels it too—this overwhelming sense we are all ignoring stuff we shouldn’t.
We wrap the song, and the room falls silent except for the faint hum of the amp. Todd mutters something under his breath, and West’s jaw ticks.
Before anything can explode, I set my bass down, dragging a hand over the back of my neck. My gaze drifts to heragain, standing there, typing something into her tablet like she’s actually taking notes and not just avoiding looking at any of us.
Enough.
I light a cigarette as I watch her for a moment longer, then push away from the amp and head toward her. She doesn’t notice me at first, too caught up in whatever she’s pretending to focus on. Her brows are furrowed, and there’s this tiny wrinkle between them I’ve never seen before—a silent marker of how many years have passed.
“Hey,” I say on an exhale of smoke, my voice low enough not to draw attention from the others.
Her head snaps up, eyes locking with mine. There’s something there, just beneath the surface—a flicker of vulnerability that vanishes too quickly for me to grasp.
“Got a minute?” I ask, taking another puff and letting the smoke drift slowly upward toward the ceiling as I watch her through the haze.
She hesitates, her fingers tightening around the tablet, as if it could shield her from me. After a moment, she nods. Snuffing out my cigarette, I motion toward the small recording room in the corner—somewhere quieter, away from the others.
I shut the door behind us, and the thick silence in the soundproof room presses in. Everything feels more real. The space between us seems too small, too close, as if something unsaid hangs in the air.
“I wanted to talk,” I say, leaning against the wall, my arms crossed. I’m trying to look casual, but I can feel the tension in every part of me, coiled and tight. She stays standing, arms folded, her posture defensive, like she’s preparing for something she can’t control.
“About?” Her voice is steady, but I can see the way her fingers whiten, a silent sign of how much she’s holding back.
I hesitate, searching for the right words. “About this. About us. About what the hell we’re doing here.”
She flinches. I catch it, a tiny movement that says more than I think she means to show. “It’s just work, Jake. That’s all it is.”
I let out a dry laugh, the sound rough and bitter. “You really believe that? After everything?”
