Apocalypse Expert in a Beastman World
Genevieve woke up choking on her own blood, a fatal gash tearing through her abdomen. The memories of a primitive world crashed into her mind—she had transmigrated into the body of a sadistic beastman Mistress.
But the five powerful beastmen "mates" standing over her hadn't come to her rescue. They had come to watch their tormentor die.
"We should just leave her," Kameron sneered coldly. "The scavengers will clean up the mess."
Gilberto spat in disgust, while Angelo, a silver-scaled snake-man, trembled in pure terror at the sight of her. The original owner had whipped them, humiliated them, and driven another mate to suicide. Now, they were letting her bleed out in the mud, their eyes filled with undisguised loathing and satisfaction.
She was a top-tier apocalyptic survival expert, yet here she was, paying the ultimate price for a stranger's monstrous sins. It was a bitter, unacceptable irony to die helplessly in the dirt while her supposed protectors waited for her corpse to rot.
She refused to accept this ending.
Forcing a chaotic surge of energy through their shared Biological Link, she brought all five men to their knees in agonizing pain, commanding them to carry her back. In the dark cave, without a single scream, she plunged her bare hands into a fire and brutally cauterized her own gaping wound with searing ash. As the beastmen stared in horrified awe at the unbreakable soul now occupying the tyrant's body, Genevieve wiped the blood from her face and began to rewrite her fate.
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Chapter 7
The hot tears splashing onto her hand felt like a brand. Genevieve didn't pull away. She tightened her grip, a silent promise, and slowly rose to her feet, gently tugging him up with her.
Angelo followed, pliant and boneless with shock, his gaze fixed on the ground as if he were being led to the gallows.
She led him to the main bed, the throne of furs that had once been his personal hell. She pressed down on his shoulder, a clear gesture for him to sit.
The moment his skin touched the soft pelt, he recoiled as if he'd been electrocuted, scrambling to stand back up. This was a forbidden zone. A place he was only allowed near when he was being punished.
Genevieve sighed, a sound of pure exhaustion. She put her hands on his shoulders again, this time with more force, and looked directly into his terrified, reptilian eyes.
"Sit down," she said, her voice intentionally firm, falling back on the tone of command he understood. "That's an order."
The word "order" was magic. His body, conditioned by years of abuse, obeyed instantly. He sat, stiff and straight, on the very edge of the fur-covered ledge.
Genevieve turned back to the fire. She picked up a flat stone she had placed near the embers to warm and a clean, albeit ragged, piece of cloth.
When she turned back, holding the items, Angelo's face drained of all color. The hot stone. In his mind, it could only be for one thing. A brand. A new mark of ownership and pain.
He scrambled backward on the bed, his hands flying up to shield his chest. "No," he shrieked, his voice high and thin with terror. "Please, Mistress, don't! Don't burn me!"
Genevieve froze. The hot stone slipped from her numb fingers and clattered to the floor. She dropped the cloth. She stared at him, at his frantic, panicked eyes, and her heart felt like it was being squeezed in a fist.
She immediately raised her hands, palms open, showing him she was unarmed.
"I won't burn you," she said quickly, her voice laced with an urgency that surprised even herself. "I won't. I'm not doing anything."
She moved back to the bed and sat beside him. He flinched away, but she was faster, her hands closing around his wrists, gently pulling his arms away from his chest.
The firelight illuminated what he had been hiding.
Her breath caught in her throat. His torso was a roadmap of pain. Crisscrossing whip marks, some old and faded white, others new, red and angry, still oozing blood.
"Does it hurt?" she whispered, the question torn from her. Her fingers hovered over the brutalized flesh, trembling, afraid to touch, afraid to cause even a fraction more pain.
Angelo stared at her, his panicked breathing hitched. The question didn't compute. In his entire life, no one had ever asked him that. They were the cause of the pain; they were not concerned with its effect.
The simple, impossible question broke the last of his composure.
A gut-wrenching sob tore from his throat, and he doubled over, his face buried in his hands, crying like a lost child. He cried for the pain, for the fear, for the years of silent suffering.
Genevieve didn't speak. She just moved closer. Gritting her teeth against the agonizing, tearing sensation in her abdomen as she leaned forward, she wrapped her arms around his shaking, bony frame, pulling him into a hug. It was awkward and clumsy, but it was real. Every shuddering sob that wracked his body pulled at her cauterized flesh, sending spikes of white-hot agony radiating through her core. She swallowed back a groan, refusing to let go. She let him soak her dirty tunic with his tears and snot, holding him, anchoring him despite the physical torture it cost her.
"Why... why did you pull out my scales?" he choked out between sobs, the words muffled against her shoulder. "I was good... I always listened..."
She squeezed him tighter, resting her cheek against his silver hair, feeling the sharp knobs of his spine through his thin shirt.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice thick. "I'm so, so sorry."
She repeated the words over and over, a mantra against the darkness of his past. The apology, something he'd never heard, never expected, seemed to have a magical effect. His frantic sobs slowly subsided into shuddering gasps.
He pulled back, just enough to look at her. His eyes were red and swollen, but through the tears, a fragile, complex light was beginning to dawn.
"Mistress..." he asked, his voice trembling with a desperate, hopeful vulnerability. "You... you really won't hit me anymore?"
Genevieve met his gaze, her own eyes fierce and unwavering.
"I swear it," she said, her voice like iron. "Unless I am dead, no one will ever hurt you again. Not even me."
Angelo's vertical pupils dilated, widening until they were huge, black pools. Something shifted in their depths. The fear was still there, but it was being rapidly consumed by something else, something new and terrifyingly intense.
He leaned forward, and before she could react, his forked tongue darted out, a snake's instinct, and flicked against the back of her hand, tasting the drop of blood from her self-inflicted wound.
His eyes, when they met hers again, were no longer just afraid.
They were possessive.
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8.0
On the night of their third wedding anniversary, Ashley was ready to reveal a secret to her husband-
She was pregnant.
But moments after their passionate intimacy, her Alpha coldly delivered the blow-he wanted a divorce.
His fated mate had returned.
Stripped of her wolf spirit, abandoned by the pack, and carrying his child, Ashley was cast aside like a disposable Omega.
Just as she prepared to leave alone-
The boy she had once rejected had now risen as the most formidable Alpha King. The possessive hunger in his gaze sent shivers through her-did she dare face him? Was this vengeance, or something more? But did she even have a choice?
9.5
The first clue my life was a lie was a moan from the guest room. My husband of seven years wasn't in our bed. He was with my intern.
I discovered my husband, Brendan, was having a four-year affair with Kiya-the talented girl I was mentoring and personally paying tuition for.
The next morning, she sat at our breakfast table in his shirt while he made us pancakes. He lied to my face, promising he'd never love another, just before I learned she was pregnant with his child-a child he'd always refused to have with me.
The two people I trusted most in the world had conspired to destroy me. The pain wasn't something I could live with; it was an annihilation of my entire world.
So I made a call to a neuroscientist about his experimental, irreversible procedure. I didn't want revenge. I wanted to erase every memory of my husband and become his first test subject.
9.6
She was sold as a broodmare. He was a warrior with no memory. Together, they'll burn down the world.
Lyra has been called many things: half-blood, mongrel, dirty blood. Rejected by every pack she's approached, she's given one final chance-as a bride to Ronan, the cruel Alpha of Red River Pack. But when her wedding night becomes a nightmare, she stabs her new husband and flees into the frozen wilderness.
Stellan remembers nothing. Not his name, not his past, not the ancient tattoos covering his body. He only knows that when he sees a terrified woman falling from a cliff into an icy river, he must save her-even if it kills him.
On the run from a vengeful Alpha and his army of hunters, Lyra and Stellan discover an impossible bond growing between them. The moon has chosen them as mates. But Stellan's memories are returning, and with them, a devastating truth: he's not just any wolf. He's the Alpha of the North Star Pack. And a half-blood can never be his Luna.
Now Ronan's brother has sworn revenge, an ancient prophecy awakens, and three packs prepare for war. Lyra must prove that bloodlines mean nothing-and that the most powerful bond of all is forged in ice and fire.
He lost his memory. She lost her freedom. Together, they'll find everything.
9.0
Once a pampered princess, Alaina now clutched a deactivated American Express card, staring out at Central Park. Her family’s fortune was gone, her life, over.
Her family's Hamptons estate, a four-generation legacy, was seized by Dyer Capital. The name hit her: Hardin Dyer, the poor boy she’d once scorned, had returned.
Hardin marched in, serving a divorce agreement. He'd orchestrated her family's downfall for revenge, giving her 24 hours to vacate his property. Penniless, her father faced prison, needing $50 million. Her mother forced her to beg Hardin, who sneered, offering the money for her body. Alaina ripped up the contract.
Hours later, her father had a heart attack. Desperate, she became "Lexi," a club girl enduring humiliation. In the Viper Room, Hardin's lackeys demanded she lick whiskey off his shoe for $10,000. Hardin watched. Outside, her brother Ashton's hand was threatened for a $3 million debt. Spirit shattered, Alaina returned, knelt on broken glass, offering to sign. But Hardin declared her family "dead," offering $10 million for her body, commanding her to use her mouth.
In a furious act of defiance, Alaina threw whiskey in his face, snatched the check, and fled. Yet, when he finally took her, a searing, foreign pain and blood on the sheets revealed a shocking truth: he had never touched her three years ago. Why had he let her believe such a monstrous lie?
7.6
Top DEA agent Kaitlynn Bruce woke up to a heavy, chemical lethargy, only to realize she was trapped in the body of a weak, abused war widow.
Before she could even process her new reality, she heard her sister-in-law counting cash, selling her unconscious body to a local thug for a measly two hundred dollars.
The thug dragged her new seven-year-old son, Cason, into the bedroom.
"Mommy!"
When the boy reached out, the man brutally kicked his small body into a wooden doorframe, leaving him gasping and bleeding on the floor.
Memories flooded Kaitlynn's mind. Her predecessor was a pathetic doormat whose husband's military pension had been bled dry by these greedy in-laws, leaving her children to starve and suffer endless abuse.
But as Kaitlynn looked at the bleeding boy's dark, unnervingly alert eyes, a chilling piece of DEA intelligence clicked in her mind.
Cason Richmond.
The name, the town, the abusive aunt—it all matched the classified files of the "Director of the Hive," the most ruthless and feared cartel puppet master in the criminal underworld.
How could this battered, starving child be destined to become the ultimate monster she used to hunt?
The original widow's tragic death was supposed to be the catalyst that pushed this boy into total darkness.
But Kaitlynn Bruce was not a victim.
Adrenaline burning through the drugs, she cracked the thug's neck with a brass lamp and choked the sister-in-law against the wall.
Looking down at the boy who was supposed to become a global nightmare, she made a vow. She was going to rewrite his script, even if she had to burn the whole world down to do it.
8.4
Arlene was the illegitimate daughter of the wealthy Boone family, treated worse than a stray dog. To keep her meager scholarship, she had to swallow her pride and apologize to the frat boy who tormented her.
But he didn't just want an apology. He forced her to drink twenty shots of liquor laced with pure capsaicin extract.
"Drink us under the table, or take off your clothes and crawl out."
Arlene drank until her stomach tore, vomiting blood and collapsing on the filthy club floor.
When she dragged her half-dead body back to the Boone estate, her biological father and half-sister didn't care. Instead, her sister ground Arlene's SAT admission ticket into the dirt with her stiletto.
"Throw her out. Dad doesn't want to look at her before Hardie's engagement."
The guards threw her onto the gravel, leaving her bleeding and barefoot in the freezing night.
Arlene sat shivering at a dark bus stop, her dignity completely stripped away. She never wanted a dime from the Boones, so why did they insist on crushing her only way out? And why did Dr. Hardie Boone, the untouchable head of the family, look at her with such a twisted, terrifying obsession?
When Hardie's black Aston Martin pulled out of the shadows, he scooped her up, took her away, and locked her inside his penthouse.
"You carry the Boone name. Whether you live or die is my decision."
Trapped by the dangerous man who demanded total control over her life, Arlene finally realized that simply running away was no longer an option.