Chapter 17: Bi-Han's growl vibrates against Imani's thigh as he sucks a bruise into her soft skin, his tongue lapping at her soaked folds before plunging back into her tight hole. 'You taste like victory,' he rasps, his free hand pinning her hip down as she thrashes. When he finally lets her climax, her cries are muffled by his mouth crashing onto hers—just before he flips her onto his cock, her slick walls clamping down on his thick length as she rides him with wild, claiming strokes.
The journey back to the Lin Kuei stronghold was a silent procession through a world that felt fundamentally altered. Imani slept through most of it, cocooned in furs within the sled, her exhaustion a living thing. Bi-Han did not sleep. He sat rigid beside her, watching the frozen landscape blur past, feeling the truth of the medic’s words carve a new hollow in his chest.
A daughter.
The Lin Kuei Grandmasters had always sired sons. Strong, cold heirs to carry the mantle of Sub-Zero. A daughter was a complication. A vulnerability of a different, sharper kind. Yet, the thought that had first gripped him in the tent—the image of a small girl with Imani’s defiant eyes—refused to leave. It did not feel like a weakness. It felt like a terrifying secret, a precious, fragile shard of glass he had to learn to hold without cutting himself or crushing it.
When they arrived at the stronghold, carved into the heart of a weeping glacier, he carried her himself through the glacial corridors, past bowing initiates and silent elders. He took her not to the rooms assigned to a diplomatic bride, but to his own chambers. The decision was wordless, absolute.
The Grandmaster’s bedchamber was a reflection of the man: severe, beautiful, and bitterly cold. The walls were smooth ice, inlaid with veins of dark stone. Ancient scrolls on cryomancy and strategy hung in sealed cases. His personal weapons—gleaming, cruel things—rested on racks. The air hummed with the deep, perpetual chill he commanded. The bed was a monument, a massive frame of black iron and carved ice, heaped with the dark furs of arctic predators.
He laid her on the furs. The medic had been summoned again, had pronounced her well, just profoundly drained. She needed rest, warmth, nourishment. Bi-Han dismissed everyone. He built the fire in the hearth himself, the first real heat the room had likely ever known, watching the flames fight the entrenched cold until a tenuous, warm zone existed around the bed.
Imani awoke in the deep night. The chamber was lit by the dying fire and the eerie blue glow of the ice walls. She found him sitting in a chair of carved obsidian, still in his travel-stained armor, watching her. He looked wrecked. Shadows pooled under his eyes. The tracks of his tears in the medic’s tent might have been an illusion, but this gaunt stillness was not.
“Where am I?” Her voice was scratchy with sleep.
“My room.” His answer was a low rasp.
She pushed herself up on her elbows, the furs pooling at her waist. She took in the severity of the space, the weapons, the pervasive cold that even the fire couldn’t fully banish. It was the inner sanctum of his power. And he had brought her here.
“The portal?” she asked.
“Sealed. Liu Kang and Kuai Liang completed the ritual from the other side. It is done.” He paused. “You saved the mission.”
She heard the unspoken words. You saved our daughter. The memory of the stabilizing energy, of the conscious choice to pull from that fierce, new place within her, returned. She looked at him, really looked at him, seeing the stripped-bare exhaustion. “You cried,” she said softly, not an accusation, a fact pulled from the haze of her collapse.
He flinched, a barely perceptible tightening around his eyes. “You fell.”
Silence stretched, filled only by the crackle of sap in the fire. The distance between the bed and the chair felt like a canyon.
“She’s a girl,” Imani finally whispered, her hand drifting to her stomach.
“I know.”
“Does it… disappoint you?”
The question hung in the cold air. Bi-Han stood abruptly, the movement sharp. He walked to the foot of the bed, the ice of the floor frosting under his boots. “Disappoint?” He shook his head, a short, frustrated motion. “It changes everything. The calculations. The threats. The future.” He met her eyes, and the raw intensity there made her breath catch. “It makes you both infinitely more precious, and infinitely more in danger. My enemies would see a daughter not as an heir, but as a key. A way to pry me apart.”
“So I’ve given you a liability,” she said, the old bitterness trying to surface.
“No.” He was before her in two strides, kneeling on the fur at the edge of the bed, his hands coming up to frame her face. His touch was shockingly gentle, but his gaze was desperate. “You have given me a reason. For everything. Before, it was the clan. A legacy of stone and ice. Now…” His thumbs stroked her cheekbones. “Now it is her. And it is you. You are not a tool, Imani. You are the forge.”
The metaphor, coming from him, was a confession. She saw it then—the fear beneath the ferocity. He was a strategist, and all his strategies had just been obliterated by the revelation of a tiny, unborn girl.
Her own emotions, a turbulent sea of anger, trauma, and a helpless, unwanted connection, coalesced into a single, powerful surge. It wasn’t forgiveness. It wasn’t submission. It was a recognition of the same shattered, vulnerable place in him that lived in her. And it demanded a physical, undeniable testament.
She kissed him.
It was not soft. It was a collision, a claiming of her own. She poured every shred of her confusion, her strength, her lingering pain into it. He responded with a guttural sound, his arms wrapping around her, dragging her body flush against the hard plates of his armor. It was uncomfortable, cold, and desperately necessary.
“Get this off,” she snarled against his mouth, pulling at the buckles of his chest plate.
His hands were quicker, a blur of practiced motion. Pieces of armor clattered to the ice floor with dull, heavy thuds. Her own sleep clothes, simple silks, were ripped away with no thought for delicacy. The firelight danced over their exposed skin—the pale, scarred landscape of his torso, the softer curves of her body, now subtly changed by the life within.
He pushed her back into the furs, his mouth leaving hers to blaze a trail down her throat. He was worshipping and devouring in the same breath. When his lips closed over her nipple, suckling deep, a bolt of pure, aching need shot straight to her core. She arched, a cry tearing from her throat.
“Bi-Han…”
“I have you,” he murmured, the words a hot promise against her skin. “I have you.”
His hand slid down the flat of her stomach, over the gentle swell that was just beginning, a possessive palm cradling it for a heartbeat before moving lower. He found her wet and open for him, as always. A dark groan rumbled in his chest. “This perfect cunt. Always so ready. Dripping for me.”
He didn’t enter her. Not yet. He began to touch her with a ruthless, focused precision that was entirely new. His fingers, calloused and cool, circled her clit, then dipped inside her, curling just so, then retreating to torment the swollen bud above. He set a maddening rhythm, bringing her to the very edge of climax with expert strokes, then stopping, letting the sensation crash back down just as she was about to fall.
“Please,” she begged, twisting under him, her fingers tangled in his dark hair.
“Please what?” he asked, his voice thick. He replaced his fingers with his tongue, licking a broad, flat stripe through her soaked folds. “You want to come? On my tongue? Like a greedy little princess?”
“Yes! God, yes, just let me—”
He sucked her clit into his mouth, applying vicious, oscillating pressure. The climax roared up again, inevitable, a wave about to break. And he pulled away, leaving her gasping, hollow, vibrating with denied release.
Tears of frustration sprung to her eyes. “Why are you doing this?”
He looked up from between her thighs, his chin glistening with her arousal. His eyes were black with hunger and a profound, unsettling tenderness. “Because this time,” he said, his voice rough, “you come when I say. You break when I allow it. And you will know, in your bones, that this pleasure, this fury, this life inside you… it is all mine to give. And I choose to give it to you.”
He moved up her body, his cock, heavy and rigid, brushing against her inner thigh. He positioned himself at her entrance, the broad head nudging against her slick, desperate flesh. He didn’t push in. He waited, his entire body trembling with restraint.
“Say it,” he commanded, the Grandmaster and the husband fused into one demanding entity.
“It’s yours,” she sobbed, the need overriding pride. “It’s all yours. Now, please.”
He slammed home.
The fullness was a shock, a glorious, brutal relief. She screamed, her inner walls fluttering around the invading thickness. He didn’t move, buried to the hilt, letting her feel every inch, every pulse of his heartbeat inside her.
“Now,” he growled. “Ride it. Take what’s yours.”
He rolled them, keeping her impaled, so she was straddling him. The new angle was breathtaking. She braced her hands on his chest, her head falling back as she began to move. She set the pace, rising and falling, taking him deep, each stroke a raw affirmation. The firelight played over her sweating skin, over the taut muscles of her stomach, over his intent, haunted face as he watched her.
“Look at you,” he breathed, his hands gripping her hips, guiding her, helping her rise and fall faster. “Fucking yourself on my cock. Using me for your pleasure. My fierce, beautiful, impossible wife.”
The words, the possession, the sheer obscenity of it all fanned the flames. Her earlier frustration transformed into a driving, frenetic energy. She rode him hard, the wet, slapping sounds of their union echoing off the ice walls. She could feel his control fraying, his hips bucking up to meet her downward strokes.
“I’m close,” she warned, her voice a broken chant. “Bi-Han, I’m so close.”
“Together,” he demanded. One hand left her hip to delve between their joined bodies, his thumb finding her clit again, pressing hard in tight circles.
It was too much. The coil snapped. Her orgasm detonated, a silent, shattering convulsion that locked her body around him. She felt his own release follow, triggered by her violent clenching—a hot, pulsing flood deep inside her as he called out her name like a prayer and a curse merged into one raw sound.
She collapsed onto his chest, their bodies slick and heaving. The cold of the room began to seep back in, a contrast to the furnace of their skin. His arms came around her, holding her to him with a bone-deep tightness. His breath stirred her hair.
Long minutes passed. The fire guttered.
“I will build a world for her,” he said into the darkness, his voice barely audible. “A world of iron and ice where no one can touch her. Where she can be strong. Where she can be safe.”
Imani lifted her head, looking down at him. The vulnerability was still there, but it was armored now, fused with a terrifying resolve. “She won’t be safe in a cage,” she whispered. “Even one made of iron and ice. I won’t let you make her a prisoner of your fear.”
He held her gaze, the conflict raging in his eyes. The conqueror and the father at war. He didn’t argue. He just pulled her back down, tucking her head under his chin, wrapping the furs around them both.
“Then we will build a different world,” he finally murmured, as sleep began to claim them. “Together.”
But in the dying light, as his breathing evened out, Imani stared at the frost-etched ceiling. Together was a promise, but it was also a battlefield. And their daughter, still a secret song in her blood, was already the prize they would both fight for, even if that meant, one day, fighting each other.
And their daughter, still a secret song in her blood, was already the prize they would both fight for, even if that meant, one day, fighting each other.
Imani woke to the pale, blue-tinged light of morning filtering through the chamber’s ice. The fire was dead ash. The cold was a sharp, living presence, but beneath the furs, pressed along the length of Bi-Han’s body, she was warm. She could feel the hard lines of him, even in sleep—a tense readiness that never fully abandoned him. His arm was a heavy band across her ribs, his fingers splayed possessively over the slight curve of her stomach.
She watched his face. In sleep, the stern lines softened, but his brow was still faintly furrowed. The vulnerability he’d shown last night was gone, locked away behind his stillness. A different heat bloomed low in her belly, unrelated to the chill. It was a stubborn, defiant ember. He had orchestrated every touch last night, controlled her release like a conductor. The memory of that ruthless domination sent a shameful thrill through her.
She wanted something for herself. Something he didn’t dictate.
Slowly, carefully, she slid out from under his arm. The glacial air bit her naked skin, raising goosebumps. She ignored it, her focus narrowing to the man in the bed, to the shape of him beneath the fur. She peeled the covering back, just enough. He slept on his back. His cock lay heavy and soft against his thigh. Even at rest, it was an impressive weight.
She wrapped her hand around him. He was cool to the touch, like carved marble. She began to stroke, a slow, firm rhythm, feeling him stir, thickening and warming in her grip. A low, unconscious groan rumbled in his chest. His hips shifted minutely. She leaned down, her hair brushing his skin, and took the head of his cock into her mouth.
She swirled her tongue around the crown, tasting the faint, clean salt of him. She sucked gently, her hand working the base. He grew relentlessly harder, swelling to fill her mouth. She took him deeper, relaxing her throat, challenging herself to take more of his length. His breathing changed, growing ragged.
His hand fumbled down, still half-asleep, and tangled in her hair. Not to guide, just to feel. A groan, deeper this time, fully awake. “Imani…”
She looked up, meeting his sleep-hazed eyes. She didn’t stop. She sucked him harder, her mouth a wet, tight sleeve, her other hand cupping and gently squeezing his balls. A possessive, tight grip. His fingers tightened in her hair, a reflex, but he didn’t push or pull. He just watched, his expression shifting from confusion to dawning, intense hunger.
“Fuck,” he breathed, his head falling back onto the pelts. His abdominal muscles tensed. “Just like that. Don’t stop.”
She obeyed her own whim, not his command, but the alignment was perfect. She bobbed her head, establishing a filthy, wet rhythm. The sounds were obscenely loud in the silent room—the slick pull of her mouth, his harsh grunts. She could feel the tension coiling in him, the way his thighs tightened.
“Gonna come,” he warned, his voice strangled. His hand on her head urged her up, off.
She resisted. She stayed down, taking him all the way to the back of her throat, and swallowed around him. It was the trigger.
He swore, a raw, shattered sound, and his release shot hot and bitter down her throat. She swallowed convulsively, taking every pulse, but he was pulling her up by the hair now, his body bucking. The final spurts landed across her lips, her chin, in sticky streaks on her cheeks.
She knelt there, panting, painted with him. He stared up at her, his chest heaving, his eyes black and utterly focused. The look was one of pure, stunned possession. He reached a thumb out, smearing a drop of his cum from her cheekbone to the corner of her mouth.
“You look like a whore,” he said, his voice rough with sleep and satisfaction. “My whore.”
She licked her lips, tasting him. “You let me.”
“I did.” He pulled her down onto his chest, not caring about the mess. He kissed her, deep and searching, tasting himself on her tongue. “The Lin Kuei Grandmaster, disarmed by a mouthy princess at dawn. What does that say about my security?”
“It says you trust me,” she mumbled against his skin.
He went very still. The word ‘trust’ hung between them, alien and fragile. He didn’t confirm it. He didn’t deny it.
“We need to eat,” he said finally, the pragmatism a retreat from the emotional precipice. “You’re eating for two.” He said it like a foreign strategy, one he was still learning.
Later, in a small, private annex usually reserved for his solitary meals, they sat at a stone table. Steam rose from a simple broth and warm, dense bread. Imani ate ravenously. Bi-Han picked at his food, his gaze constantly flicking to her, to the door, to the frost patterns on the window.
“The elders will need to be informed,” he stated, not looking at her. “About the child. The… gender complicates the succession rituals.”
“She’s not a complication. She’s a person.” Imani tore a piece of bread with more force than necessary.
“In the Lin Kuei, they are the same thing.” He finally met her eyes. “They will see her as a weakness to be managed. Or an opportunity to be controlled. You must understand this.”
“So what? We hide her?”
“We prepare.” His knuckles were white around his spoon. “I will prepare. You will be protected.”
“I don’t want a guard, Bi-Han. I want a life.”
“You have a life!” He slammed his hand on the table, making the bowls jump. The outburst shocked them both. He took a sharp, controlled breath. “You have a life here. With me. It is not the gilded cage of Edenia. It is a fortress. And it is real.”
Before she could retort, a sharp knock echoed on the chamber door. Bi-Han was on his feet in an instant, a shard of ice forming in his palm from the moisture in the air. “Enter.”
A young initiate, face pale, bowed deeply. “Grandmaster. A messenger has arrived from Outworld. He bears a mark… the mark of the Shirai Ryu.”
The air turned to frost. Bi-Han’s face went utterly blank, a mask of pure, killing cold. The shard in his hand grew, sharpening into a deadly point.
Imani watched his transformation, the man from moments ago utterly vanished. This was the Sub-Zero from the stories. A harbinger of vengeance.
“Where is he?” Bi-Han’s voice was quieter than a whisper, and infinitely more dangerous.
“The main gate, Grandmaster. He awaits your pleasure.”
Bi-Han looked at Imani, his eyes glacier-blue and distant. “Do not leave these chambers.” It was no longer a husband’s request. It was the order of a general going to war.
He strode from the room, leaving the cold to settle in his wake. Imani sat alone, the food turning to ash in her mouth. The Shirai Ryu. The ancient, hated rival clan. The destroyers of his father.
Their fragile world of furs and whispered confidences had just shattered. The battle for their daughter’s future had begun, and the first enemy was at the gate.