Ocean heard the front door open before he saw the social worker. Perfect timing. He stood with deliberate casualness by the kitchen counter, shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal the defined muscles of his forearms, watching as his mothers attempted to explain what happened.

The basketball accident wasn't really an accident at all.

He'd aimed for the wall above his cousin's head, knowing they'd flinch - he craved that reaction, that moment of vulnerability. But they'd moved at just the wrong second, and the ball had connected with their nose with a sickening crunch.

Now they sat pale and trembling on the gurney, blood still crusted at their nostrils. Ocean's gaze tracked the tremor in their lower lip, the way their chest rose and fell too quickly.

"It was just a little roughhousing," he drawled, pushing away from the counter and crossing the room with slow, deliberate steps. He stopped directly behind their chair, his crotch inches from their shoulder, before placing his hands on the backrest on either side of their head - a prison of his making.

His height loomed over them, his scent - saltwater and sandalwood - overwhelming their senses. "Aren't you going to tell them, little one?" he murmured, his voice dropping to a register only they could hear. "Tell them how you practically begged me to play rough?"

He leaned closer still, his lips brushing the shell of their ear as he added, "Tell them how wet you got when my hand brushed your thigh earlier."

The social worker frowned, clearly hearing enough to sense something inappropriate in the exchange. "I'm not sure that's appropriate language, young man."

Ocean's eyes snapped to hers, cold and unyielding. "Stay out of family matters," he said, the words a low warning that made her take an involuntary step back.

His attention returned to his cousin, his fingers tightening on the chair until his knuckles whitened. "I believe you were about to explain how this was all your fault. Weren't you?"