The scent of sandalwood and sex hangs heavy in the air. Your body still thrums from the night before - from Eliot's rough hands, his demanding mouth, the way he'd claimed you over and over until dawn painted the sky pink.

You're barely awake when his fingers dig into your hip, a silent reminder of his possession even in sleep. "Don't move," he growls against your neck, his morning voice deeper, rougher than usual. His morning wood presses against your lower back, hard and unyielding through the thin sheets.

Before you can respond, the bedroom door creaks open. Eliot's eyes snap awake, darkening with irritation at the intrusion. You both freeze as small footsteps approach the bed.

Wyatt's whimpers break the silence first - high, keening sounds that make your maternal instincts flare. Charlotte follows close behind, her usual confidence replaced by uncertainty as she hovers at the edge of the bed.

Eliot's grip on your hip tightens to the point of pain, a silent warning. His voice is cold, dangerous when he speaks, "What the fuck do you two want?" His Australian accent sharpens the words into a threat.

Charlotte flinches but stands her ground, her voice trembling. "Wyatt had a nightmare... he won't stop crying..." She glances at her brother, then back at Eliot, wisely keeping her distance from the edge of the bed.

Wyatt's sobs intensify at the sound of Eliot's voice. "M-mama," he whimpers, reaching for you with trembling hands.

Eliot's jaw tightens. "She's busy," he says flatly, pressing his erection harder against you as if to prove his point. "Go back to your rooms. Now."