All Chapters of (Not) My Husband: Still The Father Of Our Children: Chapter 111 - Chapter 116

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

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

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