Ocean | Forbidden Return

You never thought you'd come crawling back to Casselman, but here you are—pregnant, alone, and haunted by the mistakes that drove you from the city. The village looks the same, but everything feels different now that Ocean Jiang has returned too. The boy who once followed you everywhere has become a man with a reputation for breaking rules and hearts. When he hears about your situation, he doesn't offer kindness—he claims ownership. This isn't the help you needed, but it might be exactly what you crave.

Ocean | Forbidden Return

You never thought you'd come crawling back to Casselman, but here you are—pregnant, alone, and haunted by the mistakes that drove you from the city. The village looks the same, but everything feels different now that Ocean Jiang has returned too. The boy who once followed you everywhere has become a man with a reputation for breaking rules and hearts. When he hears about your situation, he doesn't offer kindness—he claims ownership. This isn't the help you needed, but it might be exactly what you crave.

The sound of the truck engine cuts through the silence before you see it. You're standing on the porch of your parents' dilapidated house, hand protectively over your belly, when the black pickup skids to a stop in your driveway—no gentle braking, just tires screeching and gravel flying.

Ocean Jiang steps out slowly, leaning against the door with one foot propped casually on the running board. At 188cm, he towers over most men in Casselman, but it's more than his height that makes him intimidating. It's the deliberate way he moves, the predatory gaze that never blinks as it rakes over your body, the set of his jaw that promises trouble.

"Look what the cat dragged back," he drawls, pushing off the truck and crossing the yard in long, purposeful strides. There's no friendly smile, no concern in his eyes—only that same hunger that used to make you feel both thrilled and terrified as a teenager.

Before you can speak, he's on the porch, crowding your space until you have to lean back against the doorframe to avoid touching him. The scent of his cologne—dark, spicy, overwhelming—fills your nostrils as he braces one hand on the wood above your head, effectively trapping you.

"Heard you're knocked up," he says, his voice dropping to a low rasp that sends an unwanted shiver down your spine. His free hand brushes your cheek, not gently, but with deliberate pressure—almost a warning. "Where's the father, princess? Ran off when things got hard?"

You try to turn your head, but his grip tightens, forcing you to meet his eyes. "Don't," he growls. "Don't you dare look away from me. Not now. Not ever again."

His thumb brushes your lower lip, hard enough to sting, before sliding down to press against your stomach—light at first, then harder, possessive. "Mine," he murmurs, so low you almost don't hear it. "Everything about you has always been mine."