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111: Mint Storms & Vanilla Tremors
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2025-07-07 07:31:40The old room hadn’t changed much since the twins were six—same soft-blue walls, same slanted ceiling, the faint scent of cedar still trapped in the beam above the window.
Boxes of long-abandoned toys lined one shelf, and a crooked growth-chart—Caleb, Camden, Caleb, Camden—climbed the doorframe in uneven pencil marks.It should have smelled like nostalgia.Instead, it throbbed with Alpha.Peppermint: bright-sharp, electrifying. Spearmint: warmer, greener, edged with smoke. And threading between—Lior’s scent: vanilla-snow and the faint mineral bite of cold iron, shy but unmistakably Omega.He had followed them in before he could think better of it; now the door was shut, the lock clicking home like a final period on a sentence he hadn’t meant to finish.Caleb leaned back against the dresser, arms folded, dark-gold eyes tracking every flutter of Lior’s white lashes.Camden slid to the side, a lazy prowl, backlit by the yel
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(Not) My Husband: Still The Father Of Our Children 118: Scent Of Home
NB: AN AU WHERE EZRA DIDN'T LOCK SEBASTIAN UP AND SEBASTIAN DIDN'T RUN AWAY WITH THE KIDS.The scent in the house was criminal.Heavy sandalwood and spice clung to the walls like a second coat of paint, woven with warm vanilla and something even softer—a new thread, sweeter and quieter, barely there but unmistakable.Five months in, Sebastian’s scent had changed.Not dramatically. Not enough that strangers would catch it. But the people who lived in that house? The ones who knew him by heartbeat, who buried themselves against his skin when they needed comfort? They knew.And they swarmed.Caleb was plastered to Sebastian’s left side, cheek squished against his belly like a cat finding sun. Camden, not to be outdone, had wormed between Sebastian and the counter, arms wrapped around his waist, breathing slow and deep with every sniff.“Okay,” Sebastian said softly, trying to stir the soup without jostling either of them. “Someone’s about to get a ladle to the nose.”“Just sniffin’, Dadd
(Not) My Husband: Still The Father Of Our Children 117: Three Heartbeats
Sebastian descended the stairs on shaky legs, one hand half-covering the fresh bite at his throat. The lanterns in the living room cast a soft honey glow across book-lined shelves, but the scene he’d just left behind still burned behind his eyes like a curse: Lavielle Marrowen—shirtless, tiger-striped, cigarette dangling blocking the doorway while Mia sprawled on the bed, wrecked and glassy-eyed. Even through three walls Lavielle’s blood-orchid smoke and crushed pepper clung to the timber like varnish. Elio glanced up from his seat by the hearth, amber liquor swirling slow in a cut-glass tumbler. Sandalwood logs popped in the grate; cinnamon-and-apple smoke curled sweetly through the room. “Judging by that expression,” he drawled, “I take it Lavielle finally made herself…known.” Sebastian lowered himself onto the sofa arm, pulse still sprinting. “Known? She’s shifted Mia’s centre of gravity six inches south.” Elio winced, more long-suffering than shocked then produced a sli
(Not) My Husband: Still The Father Of Our Children 116: The Best So Far
The room reverberated with afterglow—humid air saturated in sweat, citrus slick, and blooming blood-orchid. Beneath it all lurked a heavier note: burnt amber and spice, the kind of Alpha pheromone that clung to drywall and slithered under doors to haunt anyone in the hallway. Even the bedframe gave a weak, uncertain creak every few seconds, as if its joints couldn’t catch up with what had been done to it.Mia lay boneless on the mattress—legs still trembling, dress bunched up at her waist, thighs glistening. Her makeup was ruined. Mascara streaked under both eyes, hair clinging to her temples like she'd been dragged through a thunderstorm.She looked nothing like the sharp-tongued Greystone attorney who had once taken down two senior Alphas in a televised council debate.No.She looked like a properly bred Omega.One who’d been folded in half, and rutted through the mattress, then left exactly where she belon
(Not) My Husband: Still The Father Of Our Children 115: Pulse Memory
Mia didn’t mean to slam the door, but she did.Her old bedroom greeted her like a time capsule—academy awards on the shelf, a busted dresser with a dent from when she punched it at sixteen, and the faint scent of sandalwood and vanilla still clinging to the curtains. It should’ve felt safe.But Lavielle stood inside it, looking violently out of place. And completely at home.Her black suit jacket was still buttoned—bare skin visible at the throat, inked tiger-stripes curling from her neck down beneath the lapels. She was already undoing her belt with one hand, slow, like she was bored. Like she knew exactly how this would go.“Really?” Mia snapped, glaring. “You couldn’t wait five minutes?”Lavielle’s mouth curled as she let the belt hang loose from her hand. “You brought me to your bedroom. Forgive me for reading the pheromones.”Mia’s scent had betrayed her before the door even closed. She could feel it risi
(Not) My Husband: Still The Father Of Our Children 114: Blood Orchid In Bloom
The lawn beyond the Anderson house, two hectares of winter-yellow grass and half-dormant orchard had been roped off with strings of paper lanterns. Tables skirted in navy cloth arced beside an impromptu dance square; borrowed patio heaters hissed like tame dragons. The sun sat low, peach-gold behind the treeline, frosting every breath.Sebastian moved through it all with practiced grace: lavender dish-soap still on his knuckles, a soft cashmere roll-neck skimming the fresh claim-mark on his throat. Ezra ghosted at his shoulder in a charcoal henley and dark jeans, one hand forever hovering at the small of Sebastian’s back—as if the bond would fray if he let go.Guests poured in: clinic nurses with bright scarves, neighbors balancing casserole dishes, the Moreno brothers swaggering in flannel and starting up the grill like they owned it. Mrs Finch held court near the cider urn, her red hat bobbing as she shooed pups away from the powdered-sugar do
(Not) My Husband: Still The Father Of Our Children 113: Hearts, Heat & Hysteria
Lavender steam coiled thick and slow, clinging to the mirror, the tile, the backs of two bodies caught in the kind of heat that made the air feel drunk.Sebastian’s palms were flat to the wall, chest heaving gently, steam-damp skin glowing under the low vanity light. Every inch of him was slick—neck to thighs—Omega warmth blooming between his legs in slow rivulets, sweet with scent and edged with tremble.Behind him, Ezra moved like a shadow come home. Barefoot, hard, and silent but for the sound of skin meeting steam. One palm slid up Sebastian’s waist, fingers splaying over ribs with quiet possession. His hips were already nestled close, heat pressed against the cleft of Sebastian’s body—but he hadn’t taken him. Not yet.He was savoring.“Still with me?” Ezra asked, lips grazing the back of his mate’s ear.Sebastian’s answer was a breathless laugh. “You make it hard to be anywhere else.”Ezra smiled against
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