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116: The Best So Far
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2025-07-09 07:09:45The 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
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(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
(Not) My Husband: Still The Father Of Our Children 112: The Bond
Sebastian woke to sandalwood on his pillow and Ezra’s palm spread warm across his belly. A faint ache pulsed at his throat where teeth had finally settled the night before—not frantic love bites this time, but one deliberate bite, a thin crescent of claim. Heat flickered through the bond in slow, honeyed waves, and for the first time in eight years the house hummed with a single shared heartbeat.A moment later, the first voice chimed in—not aloud, but inside his skull.Daddy?Sebastian sat up, blinking. He hadn’t spoken. Neither had Ezra.Small Daddy! Zara’s voice burst in right after, fizzing with rose-petal joy. Can you hear me? Ezren says this is real!“What the—” Sebastian started, just as another thought spiraled in, peppermint-laced and smug.Testing testing, Alpha twins reporting for duty.Ezra groaned from beside him. “Oh god, they figured it out.”Zara squealed again, this time both
(Not) My Husband: Still The Father Of Our Children 111: Mint Storms & Vanilla Tremors
The 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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