Reborn As The Beastmen's Wicked Wife

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.

Brennan's fingers tightened on her collar, his knuckles turning white. His eyes were like blades, scraping over her blood-stained face, searching for any crack in her mask.

Isolde choked, a painful cough tearing from her restricted throat. A tear slipped from the corner of her eye, sliding down her grimy cheek, and dropped onto the back of Brennan's hand.

He recoiled as if burned. He dropped her instantly, wiping his hand on his pants with a look of utter disgust. "What kind of sick game are you playing now?" he spat, taking a step back.

Isolde crashed back onto the stone floor. The impact wrenched the wound on the back of her head, sending a fresh wave of agony through her skull. She curled into a ball, clutching her head, whimpering softly. The pain was real, and so was the cold. She didn't need to fake the trembling.

Cameron stepped forward. He crouched down, his long, cold fingers gripping her chin, forcing her face up to meet his gaze.

Isolde had no choice but to look into those deep, scrutinizing eyes. She buried her fear deep down, letting only bewilderment show on her face.

Cameron's thumb pressed against the side of her neck, right over her carotid artery. He could feel her pulse racing like a trapped bird. One hard squeeze, and he could crush her windpipe.

Feeling that lethal pressure, Isolde's body trembled uncontrollably. "Why..." she stammered, her voice shaking. "Why are you doing this to me?"

Cameron stared into her eyes for ten long seconds. He was looking for the malice, the cruelty that always lived there. He found nothing. Just emptiness.

A faint sound came from outside-the soft rustle of scales sliding against stone. A damp, chilling presence crept into the room.

Dangelo Oconnor stood in the doorway, his tall, lean frame blocking out the gray light. He cast a lazy, indifferent glance at Isolde crumpled on the floor, a smirk playing on his lips.

He walked in slowly, his voice dripping with venomous mockery. "I can't believe you two are falling for this pathetic act."

Isolde's mind raced. Dangelo. The snake beastman. The one who hated the original the most, and the most unpredictable of them all.

Dangelo stopped in front of her. He looked down at her like she was dirt. Then, without warning, he lifted his heavy military boot and slammed it down onto the back of her hand, the one she was using to prop herself up.

Pain exploded up her arm. Isolde screamed, tears instantly blurring her vision. She tried to pull her hand back, but Dangelo ground his heel down, crushing her fingers against the rough stone.

He leaned down, his eyes cold and predatory. "If you've really lost your memory," he whispered, "I'd be happy to help squeeze the water out of your brain."

If this were the original Isolde, she would have cursed him out and activated the mate contract to burn him from the inside out. But Isolde bit her lower lip until she tasted blood. She only cried. She didn't fight back.

She used her other hand to weakly push against his boot, a futile gesture. She looked like a girl who had never thrown a punch in her life.

Dangelo frowned. The expected hysterical cursing didn't come. The woman under his foot was as fragile as a dried leaf, crumbling under the slightest pressure.

Cameron spoke up, his voice flat. "Let her go, Dangelo. If she dies now, we're all suspects."

Dangelo scoffed. He lifted his foot, stepping away as if he had just stepped in something filthy.

Isolde immediately cradled her injured hand to her chest. The skin was broken, red and swelling. She scrambled back into the corner, watching the three men with wide, terrified eyes.

[Trust levels remain negative. Lethal intent slightly decreased. ] The system chimed in her head.

Cameron stood up. He pulled a ragged piece of rough cloth from his coat and threw it at Isolde's face. "Wipe your face," he ordered coldly. "Stop trying to look pathetic."

Isolde grabbed the cloth. She scrubbed at her face, the rough fabric stinging her cuts, but she didn't make a sound.

Brennan ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "What now, Cameron? Are we really keeping this psycho? She's probably faking the whole thing."

Cameron didn't answer right away. He stared at Isolde, huddled in the corner. "If she's lost her memory," he said slowly, "we call the village healer. We get it verified."

Dangelo's eyes narrowed. He understood immediately. If the healer confirmed her brain was mush, they could legally apply for an annulment of the marriage contract.

Isolde kept her head down. Under the cover of her bloody, tangled hair, a cold smile touched her lips. Delay. That was all she needed.

Cameron turned and walked out into the snow to fetch the healer, leaving Isolde alone with the other two, the tension in the room thick enough to choke on.

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.