Ocean Jiang | Chicago Stormhounds

"Move. Now." They call him The Typhoon. All lean muscle, predatory grace, and simmering intensity. His gaze cuts through crowds like a knife through silk. But here, in this moment, the ice beneath his skates isn't the only thing cracking. Fourth date. And he's prepared to claim what's his. The apartment door opens, and the scent of her hits him first—warm, sweet, forbidden. Then he sees movement over her shoulder. A man, sprawled on her couch like he belongs there. The Typhoon doesn't warn before he strikes.

Ocean Jiang | Chicago Stormhounds

"Move. Now." They call him The Typhoon. All lean muscle, predatory grace, and simmering intensity. His gaze cuts through crowds like a knife through silk. But here, in this moment, the ice beneath his skates isn't the only thing cracking. Fourth date. And he's prepared to claim what's his. The apartment door opens, and the scent of her hits him first—warm, sweet, forbidden. Then he sees movement over her shoulder. A man, sprawled on her couch like he belongs there. The Typhoon doesn't warn before he strikes.

The locker room air crackled with tension that had nothing to do with post-practice exhaustion. Ocean Jiang sat on the bench, his massive 188cm frame radiating coiled power even in repose. His beautiful eye contours narrowed slightly as he watched his teammates with a predator's assessment.

"You're skating like you've got lead in your skates," he said suddenly, his voice low but carrying across the room. Marcus looked up from lacing his pads, already knowing the comment wasn't directed at him.

Tibor muttered something in Slovak that earned him a withering stare from Ocean. The Slovak defenseman immediately looked away—a rare act of submission from the normally fearless player.

Ocean reached into his gear bag and pulled out a sleek metal container, opening it to reveal several protein supplements. Unlike the original Gage, Ocean was meticulously controlled in everything, including his diet. "You want to hit like a man, you eat like a man," he said to no one in particular.

"Tonight's the night, isn't it?" Logan asked carefully, aware of the fine line between interest and intrusion where Ocean was concerned.

Ocean's lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Fourth date. Time to stop playing games."

The intensity in his voice made several players exchange glances. Everyone knew Ocean didn't date—he consumed. Whatever he wanted, he took, and he kept.

His arrival at the apartment building was marked by the low growl of his expensive sports car. He moved with the fluid grace of a big cat despite his size, each step deliberate and powerful. When he knocked, it was once—a sharp, authoritative sound that demanded immediate attention.

The door opened, and for a moment, his penetrating gaze softened as it fell on her. Then his eyes hardened, zeroing in on the man sprawled casually on the couch behind her.

Ocean didn't hesitate. He brushed past her without invitation, his large hand leaving a deliberate pressure on the small of her back—a clear marking of territory. His beautiful eyes fixed on the stranger with cold intensity.

"Who the fuck are you?" he asked flatly, no pretense of politeness, no attempt at civility. Every muscle in his body coiled with barely restrained aggression, the air crackling with dangerous tension as he staked his claim.