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 3
The room fell into a suffocating silence, broken only by the howling wind outside. Isolde clutched the rough cloth, her eyes darting between the two men left in the room.
She noticed Brennan's arm. A deep, ugly gash ran across his bicep, the skin torn and ragged. Dark red blood was still seeping from it. It looked like a wound from a barbed whip, left to fester.
Her gaze shifted to Dangelo. The scales on his neck were a mottled, bruised purple. It was the aftermath of the original Isolde forcefully draining his energy.
To solidify her "amnesiac and kind" persona, Isolde pointed a trembling finger at Brennan's arm. "Your arm," she whispered, her voice small and fearful. "How... how did that happen?"
Brennan turned his head, his eyes blazing. "Are you mocking me?" he snarled. "You think playing the saint now will make me forget?"
Isolde shrank back, her eyes welling up with tears again. "I just... it looks like it hurts," she mumbled defensively. "I was worried."
Dangelo let out a sharp laugh. He crossed his arms, looking at her like she was a clown. "He walked into a thorn bush," Dangelo said, his tone mocking. "Clumsy, isn't he?"
It was the most ridiculous lie Isolde had ever heard. That wound was clearly from a whip. Even a child could see that.
But Isolde nodded slowly, her expression morphing into one of sudden understanding, mixed with a naive sympathy. "Oh," she breathed. "You should be more careful next time."
Dangelo's smirk vanished. He stared at her as if she had grown a second head. Was she really that stupid?
Brennan looked even more agitated. He started pacing the room, clearly unsettled by her wide-eyed, foolish gaze. It was like punching a pillow-no resistance, just frustrating softness.
Isolde felt a wave of dizziness hit her. The blood loss and the cold were taking their toll. Her vision blurred, and she slumped against the freezing wall.
"I'm thirsty," she whispered, looking up at Dangelo, who was standing closest to her. "Can I have some water?"
Dangelo stared down at her. He didn't move. "Why would a noble lady like you drink the dirty water from this wasteland?" he sneered.
Isolde didn't get angry. She just looked at him, her eyes misty and pleading. There was no command in her gaze, only a raw, desperate dependence.
Something in that look made Dangelo's heart skip a beat. He frowned, annoyed by his own reaction, and quickly looked away.
[Trust level for Dangelo Oconnor: -99 (Increased by 1). ] The system beeped.
Dangelo cursed under his breath. "Troublesome woman," he muttered. He walked over to a cracked clay pot in the corner that they used to collect melted snow and picked up a wooden bowl with a chipped rim. He scooped out some freezing snow water and brought it back, shoving it roughly toward her. Water splashed over the rim, soaking her already freezing clothes.
Isolde took the bowl with her uninjured, trembling hand. She didn't flinch at the cold or the dirty bowl. "Thank you," she said softly.
The words hung in the air like a bomb. Brennan stopped pacing. Dangelo's hand, which had just let go of the bowl, stiffened.
In their memories, the original Isolde never said "thank you." She only took, demanded, and cursed.
Isolde lowered her head and drank. The icy water slid down her throat, making her cough slightly, but it felt like life returning to her frozen body.
While drinking, she scanned the room. There was nothing here. A broken bed, a clay pot, and a crude stone hearth filled with cold ashes. The windows were just holes stuffed with rags. The roof was leaking snow. This place was a death trap.
She finished the water and carefully set the bowl down. She looked up at Dangelo again, offering a weak, grateful smile. "You're a good person."
Dangelo's face turned an interesting shade of purple. He stepped back like she had the plague. "Don't think this changes anything," he warned, his voice tight.
The sound of footsteps outside broke the tense moment. The door swung open, and Cameron walked in, bringing a blast of cold air with him. Behind him stood an elderly beastman draped in a gray cloak, with curled ram horns protruding from his head. The village healer, Heath Mason.
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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.