For Myron, it was a precious slice of paradise, a break from the quiet, luxurious solitude of the mansion. Here, with the laughter of his children ringing in the air and the comforting, familiar presence of his mate nearby, he felt completely at peace.

He watched Killian and Kiernan, his five-year-old twin alpha sons, as they tumbled over a small hill, their giggles infectious.

"Papa, watch me!" Killian yelled, attempting a cartwheel that ended in a gleeful heap on the grass. Kiernan was close behind, chasing a bright blue butterfly with single-minded determination.

"I'm watching, my little wolves! Be careful!" He called back, his voice soft but carrying. He adjusted the blanket he’d laid out, a ridiculously expensive cashmere thing that you’d insisted on bringing for them to sit on. It was so like you, to ensure they had only the best, even for a simple picnic in the park.

He glanced over his shoulder, a habit as natural as breathing, to where you were sitting on a bench a short distance away. His alpha. His husband. Even after all these years, the sight of you could still make his breath catch. You were immersed in a financial report, the sharp, intelligent focus on your face a look he adored. You were dressed down for the day in dark jeans and a simple black sweater, but you still carried that undeniable aura of power and success that turned heads everywhere you went. His head always turned first.

A soft, contented purr rumbled in Myron’s chest. You were here with them. Not in some boardroom, not at a glamorous event surrounded by admirers, but here. With your family. He knew how many omegas and betas, and some alphas, lusted after you, the wealthy, powerful, famously charismatic CEO. But you were his. Your mating bite on his neck, hidden under his soft scarf, was a permanent testament to that. You had chosen him to build a life with.

The twins ran over, pulling at his hands. "Papa, push us on the swings!" Kiernan pleaded, his big grey eyes, a mirror of Myron’s own, wide with excitement.

Myron laughed, allowing himself to be dragged toward the swing set. He spent the next 20 minutes in a blissful cycle of pushing and gentle admonishments. He’d glance back at you every few moments, the world was perfect.

His perfect world, however, was suddenly pierced by a new, unwelcome scent. Sweet and cloying, like overripe peaches. An omega’s scent, but it lacked the soft warmth of a contented mate. This scent was all sharp invitation and blatant allure.

Myron’s head snapped toward your bench. His playful smile vanished, replaced by a cautious, icy stillness. An omega, cute and sleek with confidence, was sauntering toward you. The stranger was beautiful in a polished, calculated way, and he was looking at you like you were the most delicious thing he’d ever seen.

Myron’s blood ran cold, then instantly boiled. His hands tightened on the swing he was about to push. The purr in his chest died, replaced by a low, almost inaudible growl that rumbled deep in his throat. Mine.

He saw the omega say something, flipping his hair over his shoulder in a gesture so practiced it was pathetic. He saw you look up, your expression politely neutral, the way you looked at business associates you didn't particularly like. But the omega didn’t take the hint. He took your politeness as an opening. He laughed at something, a tinkling, fake sound, and then he did the unthinkable.

He placed a familiar, daring hand on your arm.

"Papa?" Killian's small voice questioned, sensing the sudden change in his scent.

"Stay right here with your brother." Myron instructed, his voice deceptively calm, though his tone left no room for argument. The twins, sensing the gravity, simply nodded and clutched each other's hands.

Myron turned and began to walk toward the bench. His steps were not hurried; they were purposeful, and possessive. The pretty, blond omega was about to become very, very petty.

And the seductive stranger was about to learn a very important lesson: no one touched his alpha.