22. Todd
CHAPTER 22
Todd
The green room feels suffocating, the air thick with everything we’re not saying. Ashlyn’s absence leaves a void I can’t ignore, my arms aching to hold her again, even though I know why she pulled away. My chest tightens as I replay the moment on stage, trying to untangle what was real and what was for show.
Her scent hit me first, strawberries and cream washing over me like a wave before I even saw her. It yanked me out of the performance, grounding me in a way I hadn’t felt in years. Then I turned and saw her striding toward me—confident, stunning, and so completely Ashlyn it knocked the breath from my lungs.
And then she kissed me.
I didn’t see it coming, didn’t even have time to think. Her lips were soft, insistent, pulling me into her orbit like she always has. For a split second, I froze, too stunned to move. But then instinct took over, and I pulled her close, my hands locking on her waist, refusing to let her go. The roar of the crowd, the thrum of the music—it all faded into nothing. There was only her, warm and sweet against me, her scent tangling with mine, creating something I never wanted to end.
Now, standing here with the guys, I can still feel the ghost of her touch, still taste the echo of that kiss. My hands curl into fists at my sides, trying to tamp down the restless need to go after her.
Xayden paces the room, his energy jittery, barely contained. He keeps spinning a drumstick in his fingers, his jaw tight as he mutters, “So this is for the media, huh? That’s what Shelley thinks? A stunt to get people talking?” He snorts, shaking his head. “I don’t think I can be fake with her.”
Jake sits in the corner, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, watching us like he’s trying to piece together a puzzle. His scent is calm, steady, but there’s a sharpness to it, like he’s holding something back. “Can we all agree that for us it isn’t fake?,” he asks finally.
I nod. Yeah, not fake. So real.
“Yeah,” Xayden breathes.
West, leaning against the wall, hasn’t said much since we left the stage. His eyes are distant, fixed on some invisible point in the room. I know that look—he’s in his head, overthinking, replaying every moment like he can figure out the right answer if he just tries hard enough.
“West?” I ask, breaking the silence.
His gaze flicks over the three of us, then away. “It worked,” he says quietly, his voice steady but subdued. “The crowd went wild. Shelley got exactly what she wanted. It will be on the front pages of tabloids by morning.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I say.
He doesn’t respond, but his jaw tightens, the tension radiating off him in waves.
Xayden finally stops pacing, his drumstick clattering onto the table as he looks at West. “You really think it’s just for show?” he asks, his voice low. “Because I don’t. Not after the way she kissed Todd. Not after she kissed you yesterday before any of this. She’s not faking a damn thing.”
The room goes still, his words sinking in.
“It doesn’t matter,” Jake says after a beat, his voice calm but firm. “If she did kiss Todd for the show, then we'll just need to figure out how to make this real.”
Xayden crosses his arms. “And fix what we broke.”
The room falls into silence again, and I feel the tension crackling between us. My gaze sweeps over them—None of us are saying it out loud, but I know the truth.
We all regret the choice we demanded she make. We. I snort at the thought. Me, it was me that ruined everything, and I have to make it better now.
Finally, I let out a breath, my voice breaking the silence. “Shelley can spin this however she wants. She can call it a stunt, a plan to save the show, whatever. But I’m not pretending.” My voice drops, firm and unshakable. “I meant what I said out there. She’s with us. Period.”
They don’t argue. They don’t need to. I can see it in their eyes—they feel it, too.
Now, all we have to do is figure out how to convince her.
The next morning, I’m parked outside Ashlyn’s apartment building, her favorite coffee balanced in a thermal mug on the seat beside me. The sun’s barely up, the city still waking, but I’ve been here for almost an hour, replaying the chaos from last night in my head. I told her she was with us. I told the world. And now? Now, I have to prove it—prove to her that it wasn’t just for the cameras or Shelley’s damn plan.
I glance at the coffee, the smell of caramel and espresso wafting from the cup. It’s a small gesture, but Ashlyn’s always been about the little things. I know this won’t magically fix everything, but it’s a start.
Movement catches my eye, and I look up just as the front doors open. She steps out, her hair loose, sunglasses perched on her nose, and a scarf wrapped around her neck. Even dressed casually, she’s stunning, effortlessly drawing attention.
And unfortunately, she’s not the only one here.
The second she’s on the sidewalk, the paparazzi swarm like vultures, their cameras clicking, voices shouting over each other.
“Ashlyn! Over here!”
“Are you really dating them?”
“What’s the deal with Todd and the band?”
Her steps falter, and I see her take a steadying breath. Her scent reaches through the crack in my window even from this distance—strawberries and cream, sweet and soft, but there’s a faint tang of nerves underneath. She wasn’t wearing blockers last night, and it’s clear she isn’t wearing them now.
I’m out of the car and up the curb to her side before I can think twice, coffee in hand. The paparazzi barely notice me at first, too focused on her, but as I push through the crowd, their attention shifts. The noise level spikes, their questions turning frantic.
“Is it true?”
“Todd, are you and Ashlyn together?”
“What does the band think about this?”
Ashlyn turns toward the commotion, her lips parting when she sees me. For a moment, she looks stunned, like she wasn’t expecting me to show up. Her perfume spikes, that sweet, familiar mix swirling with something warmer now, something that makes my pulse race.
I don’t stop to think. I step up to her, sliding my free hand to her waist, and before she can say a word, I kiss her.
The crowd erupts, cameras flashing so fast the lights blur together, but I don’t care. All I care about is the way her body softens against mine, the way her scent shifts. The strawberries-and-cream pheromones flood the air, richer now, sweeter, laced with the unmistakable heat of desire. She likes this—likes me—and the realization sends a bolt of satisfaction through me.
When I finally pull back, she’s breathless, her lips parted, her cheeks flushed. Her perfume spikes again, nervous energy threading through the sweetness, but I can still feel the effect I have on her.
I hand her the coffee, my hand brushing hers. “Good morning,” I say, my voice low enough that only she can hear.
Her sunglasses slip down her nose as she stares at me, her expression a mix of disbelief and something else—something I can't name yet. “Todd,” she starts, but the paparazzi drown her out.
“What does this mean for the show?”
“Are you two really a couple?”
“What about the rest of the band?”
I step closer, shielding her from the crowd, keeping my hand firm at her waist. “We should go,” I murmur, and she nods, still clutching the coffee like it’s a lifeline.
I make a path through the paparazzi, keeping her close, and pull open the passenger door of my car. She slides in without a word, clutching the coffee like it’s the only thing keeping her grounded. I don’t waste time, circling to the driver’s side and sliding into the darkened interior.
The engine hums to life, but my focus isn’t on the road. It’s on her. She stares straight out the windshield, her fingers wrapped so tightly around the coffee cup that her knuckles are white. Her silence is louder than the chaos we just left behind, but her scent? That gives her away.
Strawberries and cream, sweet and natural, completely unblocked. My hands tighten on the steering wheel, the urge to growl bubbling low in my chest, but I manage to swallow it down.
“You’re not wearing blockers,” I say.
She presses her lips together, finally rolling them between her teeth like she’s considering how to answer. Her cheeks turn a soft shade of pink, and for a moment, I think she might deny it, even though we can both smell her. But then she exhales, her voice low and hesitant. “Shelley said it would make it more convincing… a pack would want their omega to be natural.”
Shelley. Of course. I clench my jaw, squinting at her profile, trying to read her expression when she still won’t meet my gaze. Her scent swirls in the air between us, warm and unfiltered, and I can’t stop the way it makes my pulse quicken.
Convincing? Sure. That’s what Shelley would say. But the fact that I can actually smell her—really smell her—without any blockers dulling it? It’s intoxicating. She’s still our scent match, no matter how many years have passed, and being able to breathe her in like this is heaven.
“You didn’t have to,” I murmur, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
She finally glances at me, her eyes cautious but searching. “I know.”
Her scent spikes faintly, a tinge of nerves threading through the sweetness again, and it takes every ounce of restraint not to lean closer, not to lose myself in the way her presence fills the car. Instead, I grip the wheel tighter and focus on the road ahead.
The drive to the venue is quiet, the only sound the occasional sip of her coffee and the hum of the engine. Her perfume lingers in the confined space, threading through my thoughts, making it impossible to focus on anything else. I grip the wheel tighter, forcing myself to keep my attention on the road.
When we pull into the back lot, I glance at her again. She’s finished her coffee, the empty cup sitting in the cup holder, but her hands are twisting nervously in her lap. Her gaze flicks toward the building, then back down, as if she’s steeling herself for whatever comes next.
I park the car and step out, moving to her side to open the door. She hesitates for a beat, then slides out, her shoulders tense, her scent tainted with something sour now—uncertainty.
“It’s just the crew today,” I say, trying to reassure her. “No cameras. No crowd.”
She nods, but it’s a small, tight movement, and the tension in her posture doesn’t ease.
We walk together toward the side entrance, my hand brushing the small of her back out of habit. It’s instinctual, protective, and I catch myself before it lingers too long. But once we’re inside, the silence between us feels heavier.
As we reach the dressing rooms, I pause, turning to face her. She looks up at me, her expression carefully neutral, but I can still see the cracks in her armor. Her scent betrays her again—soft and warm, laced with lingering nerves.
I know what packs do for their omegas in moments like this, how they ease their tension, remind them they’re safe. And for a split second, I almost act on it. I step closer, reaching out to brush her hair away from her face, intending to press my nose to the spot where her scent is strongest, where her pulse thrums at her throat. To purr for her. It’s what an alpha would do—a reassurance, a promise of safety.
But before I can, she steps back, her hand coming up between us. “Todd, stop.”
Her voice is soft but firm, her gaze locking with mine. “There’s no one here to impress. No media, no cameras. You don’t have to…” she trails off, her cheeks flushing slightly, but I know what she means.
I swallow hard, pulling my hand back and shoving it into my pocket. “It’s not for them,” I say quietly, my voice low but steady. “It’s for you.”
Her eyes soften for a moment, but she shakes her head, looking away. “I don’t need that. Not right now.”
Her scent shifts again, a mixture of unease and something more subtle—something hesitant. I take a slow breath, willing myself to step back, to give her the space she’s asking for, even though everything in me screams to close the distance.
“Okay,” I say after a beat, my tone even. “I get it.”
She glances back at me, her expression unreadable, and for a moment, I wonder if she’ll say more. But she doesn’t. Instead, she turns and walks toward the dressing room, leaving me standing there, my hands still clenched in my pockets and my chest tight with restraint.
I exhale slowly, running a hand through my hair. This is harder than I thought it would be. But for her, I’ll find a way to make it work—without overstepping, without pushing too far.
Even if it kills me.