Reborn As The Beastmen's Wicked Wife
Isolde woke up in a freezing, ruined stone house with a splitting headache and only five percent of her life signs remaining.
Before she could even process the mechanical system voice in her head, a flood of violent memories slammed into her.
She had transmigrated into the body of a cruel noblewoman who mercilessly tortured her beastmen husbands with a barbed whip.
And right now, she was lying in a pool of her own blood, having been shoved against the stone floor by one of them.
Outside the rickety door, her husbands were coldly discussing her death.
"Just go in and finish her. One stab, and we're free."
"If she hit her head and died on her own, then it's an accident. We walk out of here as free males."
To test if she was faking her sudden amnesia, the snake beastman Dangelo even ground his heavy military boot into her injured hand, waiting for her to snap so he could legally end her.
She was poisoned, freezing, and entirely at the mercy of the men who deeply despised her.
She was bearing the deadly consequences of a monster she never was, with a red system warning of imminent death flashing in her mind.
But they didn't know the new Isolde had awakened a survival system and Life Magic.
She swore a blood oath to the Beast God to buy herself three months of time.
Then, she turned her sights to the dying wolf beastman chained in the shed, deciding to pull him back from hell to become her very first shield.
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Chapter 1
A splitting pain tore through the back of her skull, yanking her consciousness up from an endless dark abyss. Isolde gasped, her lungs burning as she choked on the icy air. She tried to force her eyes open, but her eyelids felt like lead, glued shut by dried blood.
The stench of rust hit her nostrils next, thick and metallic. Blood. It was everywhere. She tried to lift a hand to touch the source of the agony at the back of her head, but her limbs were stiff and frozen, as if they belonged to a corpse that had been lying in the snow for days.
[Host vitals critical. Life signs at 5%. Binding in progress. ]
A flat, mechanical voice echoed inside her mind, followed by a piercing alarm that made her eardrums throb. Nexus. The system. Before she could even process what that meant, a tidal wave of memories slammed into her brain, violent and uninvited.
She saw a world divided not into men and women, but into males and females. Males were born with a dual nature—a powerful beast form and a human form—granting them extraordinary strength and combat ability to hunt and provide. Females, like her, were born with only a human form, but possessed a powerful mental force.
This spiritual power was the only thing that could soothe the chaotic, raging sea of a male beastman's mind after battle. Without a female's touch, a male's spirit could shatter.
She saw hands-her hands-wielding a whip covered in barbs. She heard screams, saw men cowering on the floor, their backs torn to ribbons. Her stomach heaved, a violent spasm of nausea rolling through her as the sheer cruelty of those memories washed over her. That wasn't her. That was the original Isolde.
They were her mates, her five beast-husbands, bound by a sacred contract she treated as a chain of ownership.
The memory shifted. She was being dragged through the snow, the cold biting into her skin. Imperial guards threw her into this ruin like garbage, leaving her to rot in the Northern Wasteland. The humiliation and despair of that moment seared into her soul, mixing with the physical pain until she couldn't tell where the memory ended and her reality began.
A red panel flashed before her eyes, obscuring the dim light trying to filter through her lashes.
[Vitals: 5%. Status: Near-death. Immediate action required. ]
Isolde pushed against the floor, her palm scraping against rough, icy stone. Her hand slipped into something warm and sticky. Blood. Half-dried blood glued her palm to the floor, the sensation making her skin crawl. She was lying in a pool of her own blood.
Heavy footsteps crunched on the snow outside the door. Isolde's heart lurched against her ribs. She held her breath, forcing her body to go limp, falling back into the bloody mess on the floor.
The footsteps stopped right outside the rickety wooden door.
"Just go in and finish her," a young, furious voice snarled. The sound was thick with violence, instantly overlapping with a fragmented memory of a man being struck. She sifted through the chaotic, swirling mess in her mind, grabbing onto the face that matched that unhinged rage. Brennan. The name surfaced from the stolen memories. Brennan Shelton. "One stab, and we're free."
Isolde's blood ran colder than the stone beneath her. She squeezed her eyes shut tighter, cold sweat mixing with the blood trickling down her temple. They wanted her dead. They really wanted her dead.
"Don't be stupid." Another voice, calm and cold as the winter wind. Cameron Keller. "If we kill her now, the Imperial Court will investigate. We stab a female, we hang. It's that simple."
Isolde's mind raced, piecing it together. Cameron. It was Cameron who had shoved the original Isolde. He had pushed her, and she had hit her head on this very stone floor. The murder attempt wasn't a plan; it was already an accident that had happened.
Brennan kicked the wooden door in frustration. The rusted hinges groaned, and a shower of dust and snow fell from the rotting frame, landing on Isolde's face. She fought the instinct to flinch, to blink. She lay perfectly still, holding the corpse pose.
"If she hit her head and died on her own," Cameron continued, his tone devoid of any emotion, "then it's an accident. We walk out of here as free males. No contract, no her."
Isolde's heart sank to the pit of her stomach.
[Emergency Mission: Defuse the lethal crisis within 3 minutes. Failure results in host termination. ]
The red text pulsed like a death sentence. She couldn't fight them. She was at 5% health, facing two high-level beastmen. Her only weapons were the information gap and her acting skills.
The door groaned open. A gust of freezing wind swept into the room, carrying snowflakes that bit into Isolde's exposed skin. The sudden drop in temperature made her body betray her; a violent shiver racked her frame, her teeth nearly chattering.
Brennan froze, his hand still on the doorframe. "She's... she's still alive?" Disbelief and anger laced his voice.
Cameron's breathing hitched for a fraction of a second. Then, slow, deliberate footsteps approached her. Thud. Thud. Thud. Each step felt like a hammer driving a nail into her coffin. He stopped just a foot away from her head.
Isolde knew playing dead was over. She had to make the first move. She let out a weak, broken moan, a sound that scraped past her dry throat, full of pain and confusion.
Cameron stood over her, looking down. His eyes held no pity, only a deep, bottomless disgust.
Isolde slowly opened her eyes. She forced her gaze to blur, letting her pupils dilate as if she couldn't focus. She looked up at him, her expression hollow, lost, and terrified of the stranger looming over her.
She didn't scream. She didn't curse. Instead, she shrank back, her shoulders trembling as she tried to press herself further into the corner, away from him. Like a frightened animal.
Brennan strode over, his boots kicking up dust. He reached down and grabbed a fistful of Isolde's collar, hauling her half off the ground. "Don't play games with me!" he roared, his face inches from hers.
The collar dug into her throat, cutting off her air. Isolde's face drained of color. She didn't fight back. She didn't summon the contract power to punish him. She just stared at him, her eyes wide and innocent, filled with a confusion that bordered on stupidity.
Her lips trembled violently. Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling over her lashes-not from anger, but from pure, unadulterated fear. She looked from Brennan's furious face to Cameron's cold one, her voice barely a whisper.
"Who... who are you?" She swallowed hard, the words scraping out. "And who... am I?"
The room went dead silent. Brennan's hand, still gripping her collar, froze in mid-air. Cameron's eyes, which had been as unreadable as a dried well, finally flickered with a crack of sheer, absolute shock.
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8.6
I was the youngest Paladin in history, the absolute pride of the Azure Blade.
But after a disastrous mission in the snow, I was falsely accused of slaughtering my own squad.
Grand Master Bernardo Rowe didn't just exile me; he surgically severed my connection to the magic Aether, turning me into a crippled mortal.
Desperate to survive, I tried to climb the Holy Stairs to reclaim my legendary sword, "Rebellion."
Instead of answering my call, my own blade shrieked in absolute rejection and blasted me down the thousand stone steps.
My bones snapped like dry twigs, and I was left in a pool of my own blood.
The pilgrims laughed at me. The guards declared me a lost cause and left me to rot in the dirt.
I should have died there, betrayed by the Order and the holy magic I once served.
But a silent, massive laborer named Cato Sims dragged my mangled body into the shadows.
He healed my shattered skeleton in mere days with impossible skill, yet he allowed lowly servants to spit on him and beat him just to keep my presence hidden.
I didn't understand why my holy sword had abandoned me, and I understood even less why this stranger was protecting a condemned criminal.
When I finally snapped and demanded to know his price for saving my life, he didn't ask for money or my body.
"The mountain does not forget its debts. I am reclaiming what was taken from it."
Staring into his unyielding eyes, I realized my exile wasn't the end, but the beginning of a terrifying truth.
8.0
Scarlett Hayes thought marrying James Whitmore would finally make her family see her as more than a burden.
Instead, it destroyed her life.
Framed for crimes she didn't commit, betrayed by the people she trusted most, and sentenced to prison while pregnant, Scarlett lost everything in a single night.
Then came the cruelest blow of all.
After giving birth in chains, she was told her baby had died.
The people responsible believed she would spend the rest of her life rotting behind bars.
They were wrong.
Five years later, Scarlett returns.
No longer the discarded daughter of the Hayes family. No longer the broken woman they left behind.
Now she is Commander Scarlett Hayes-a decorated war hero, the unseen force behind a global intelligence empire, and a woman powerful enough to make governments tremble.
She comes back for one reason only: revenge.
Her ex-husband, the stepsister who stole her life, and the family who buried her alive are about to learn exactly what happens when a woman with nothing left to lose takes back everything they stole.
But as Scarlett tears through the secrets of her past, one truth threatens to change everything-
the child she mourned for years may not be dead.
And the mysterious man connected to the night that changed her life has been watching from the shadows all along.
8.4
My mate, Alpha Santino, brought another woman into our home. She was a pregnant Omega, the widow of his fallen Beta, and he swore to protect her above all others.
He gave her my seat of honor, left our bed cold each night to soothe her feigned nightmares, and ignored me completely. I was the Luna of the Blackstone Pack, but I was becoming a ghost in my own life.
The final betrayal happened in my own bedroom. She stood over my vanity and deliberately shattered my mother's sacred moonstone necklace, the last piece of my family I had left.
When Santino burst in, he didn't see my heartbreak. He saw only her fake tears.
"What did you do to her?!" he roared, his voice laced with the Alpha's Command, a sacred power he used to crush my will.
Then, for her, he did the unforgivable. He raised his hand and struck me, his mate.
In that instant, the love I had desperately clung to turned to ice. The man I had sworn my life to had not only betrayed me but had defiled the sacred bond the Goddess herself had blessed.
As the pain of his betrayal ripped through me, something ancient and powerful awakened in my blood. I rose to my feet and spoke the words that would destroy his world and begin mine.
"I, Alessia Bianchi, reject you, Santino Moretti, as my mate."
9.5
As a highborn succubus, I somehow managed to starve myself to death-thanks to my obsessive cleanliness and ridiculously picky appetite.
When I opened my eyes again, I had transmigrated into Vivian Hartwell-the long-lost "real" daughter with a tragically cursed fate.
I had barely been taken back into the Hartwell family before they forced me to attend a so-called "death matchmaking" event in Kingsford-on behalf of Natalie Hartwell, the fake heiress-to meet Damian Blackwood, the infamous "living reaper."
Rumor had it Damian was brutal and bloodthirsty-every woman who'd ever been involved with him either ended up dead or driven insane.
At the event, over a hundred socialites were trembling on their knees, silently praying they wouldn't be the one chosen.
Just as Damian let out a cold smirk and reached to pick his unlucky victim, I took a deep breath from the back of the crowd.
The scent emanating from him was a rare, potent masculine essence-something encountered perhaps once in ten millennia.
For a painfully picky succubus like me, this was nothing short of salvation.
I kicked aside the girl blocking my way, my eyes practically glowing as I threw both hands up. "Pick me! Hurry, pick me!"
7.4
Bridget, a ruthless twenty-first-century Wall Street analyst, woke up violently coughing up murky lake water in a decaying 1978 slum.
She quickly realized she was trapped in the body of a naive, marginalized teenager who had just committed suicide over a boy's cruel rejection.
The original girl had been mercilessly bullied by a fake rich kid named Kurtis and his cruel followers. They had publicly read her desperate love letters out loud, mocking her as a toad trying to eat swan meat, and simply watched as she threw herself into the freezing water. Now, her impoverished mother was left weeping by the bed, facing catastrophic debt and total social ruin in their small town. Everyone expected the surviving girl to wake up begging and crying for the boy who humiliated her.
Instead, a cold, calculating fury took over Bridget's analytical mind.
"I already died in that lake. That stupid girl is never coming back."
How could anyone throw their life away for a pathetic, vain clown wearing a mass-produced fifty-dollar watch? To Bridget, those uncollected love letters weren't symbols of teenage heartbreak. They were toxic assets. They were reputation landmines left out in the open that threatened her new family's survival.
Locking away the dead girl's weak emotions, Bridget forced her freezing, exhausted body out of the clinic bed. She set a hard three-month deadline to drag this family out of tier-one poverty. But first, she was marching straight to the volunteer camp to liquidate those liabilities and completely destroy the people who drove this body to death.
9.4
I was the eldest daughter of the powerful Kirk family, sent away to a Swiss sanatorium to recover from my supposed mental illness.
But my stepmother, Johnie, never intended for me to get better. She sent her personal cleaners to drag me onto a plane back to Washington D.C.
In my past life, I didn't know they were assassins. I was forcefully injected with heavy sedatives and locked in a secret torture chamber inside our luxury estate.
My stepmother and cousin skimmed my inheritance while watching me suffer.
They framed me as a crazy addict, and my own father, a sitting Senator, turned a blind eye to protect his political career.
"Her political value is gone, just get rid of her quietly."
That was the last thing I heard my father say before I was brutally slaughtered by my own family.
Until my last breath, I couldn't understand why they hated me so much.
Why did my father let them force those pills down my throat?
Why was my life worth less than my stepmother's public image?
Opening my eyes again, the freezing sensation of lake water filling my lungs vanished.
I was back in the VIP room of the St. Moritz Sanatorium in 2023.
It was the exact morning before the cleaners walked through my door with uncapped syringes.
This time, I wouldn't just survive. I was going to cut the throat of the Kirk family.