Claimed By The Touch-Starved Alpha Beasts
I woke up choking on rotting air in an alien jungle, surrounded by giant bioluminescent ferns and a three-eyed, armor-plated beast charging straight at me.
Before the monster could tear me apart, I was saved by a squad of men with metallic wings and laser rifles, but my nightmare was just beginning.
When they brought me back to their high-tech military base, every soldier we passed stopped dead, staring at me with a feverish, starving hunger that made my skin crawl.
In the medical wing, a manic doctor bypassed all protocol, pulling out a wicked silver needle to forcibly extract my blood, looking at me not as a patient, but as a winning lottery ticket.
Even their highest-ranking commander, a giant, scarred Admiral, immediately tried to claim me, demanding I be moved into his personal bedroom for "protection."
I didn't understand why I was being treated like a caged miracle, nor why a simple, accidental touch of my hand could bring my winged protector to his knees and silence his feral instincts.
"In the Aethel Empire, there are no females," my protector whispered, his icy blue eyes filled with raw desperation. "You are the only one."
The portal that brought me here was fading, trapping me in a universe of eighty billion shapeshifting Alpha males. Looking at the terrifying devotion in his eyes, I realized my life as an ordinary human was over, and to survive this, I had to tame the beasts.
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Chapter 4
The interior of the military base was a stark contrast to the wild jungle. It was a labyrinth of polished steel, bright LED strip lighting, and sterile white walls.
Cassandra followed a step behind Jefferson.
Every time they passed a patrol of soldiers, the men would stop dead in their tracks. They would snap a rigid salute to Jefferson, but their eyes-wide, dilated, and feverish-were locked entirely on Cassandra.
They looked at her like she was water in a desert. Like she was a miracle. It was a hungry, desperate kind of reverence that made Cassandra's stomach twist into knots.
She shrank in on herself, crossing her arms over her chest and rubbing her own shoulders. She stepped closer to Jefferson's broad back, using his massive frame as a shield.
Jefferson noticed.
He didn't say a word, but he subtly shifted his path. He moved half a step to his right, perfectly positioning his body between Cassandra and the staring soldiers. He squared his shoulders, his posture radiating a silent, lethal warning.
The soldiers immediately dropped their gazes to the floor, terrified.
Cassandra let out a small breath she didn't know she was holding. She looked up at the back of Jefferson's head, a sudden rush of gratitude warming her chest.
He led her into a small, sparsely furnished room. It contained a simple bed, a metal table, and two chairs. It looked like a holding cell, but it was clean.
Jefferson pointed to the bed. "Sit."
Cassandra sat on the edge of the mattress. She pulled her knees up, wrapping her arms around her legs.
Jefferson pulled out one of the chairs and sat across the room. He didn't look at her. He raised his left wrist, tapped the comm-link, and pulled up the holographic interface.
For the next three hours, the room was dead silent except for the rapid tapping of Jefferson's fingers and the soft, synthetic hum of the AI processing data.
Cassandra watched him. He was completely absorbed. Lines of text-some alien, some looking suspiciously like English letters-scrolled across his eyes in the reflection of the hologram.
A soldier knocked on the door and left a tray of food and water on the floor before practically fleeing. Cassandra was starving, but her anxiety kept her glued to the bed.
Finally, Jefferson lowered his wrist. The hologram vanished.
He rubbed a hand over his face, looking exhausted. The rigid posture he maintained had softened just a fraction.
He looked directly at Cassandra. His icy blue eyes were intense, but clear.
He cleared his throat.
"Hello," Jefferson said.
Cassandra froze.
"You... un-der-stand... me?" he asked. His pronunciation was stiff, the syllables carefully measured, and his accent was thick and metallic. It was broken, fragmented English, but it was undeniably her language.
Cassandra's breath hitched. The sheer relief of hearing a language she understood, after hours of terrifying isolation, hit her like a physical blow.
Tears welled up in her eyes, spilling over her lashes before she could stop them.
"Yes," she choked out, a wet, breathless laugh escaping her lips. She nodded frantically. "Yes. Oh my god, yes. I can understand you."
She wiped her face with the back of her dirty hand. "How did you do that?"
"AI... an-a-lyzed... basic words," he said, tapping his comm-link. "I... can... speak... slow. You... safe."
Cassandra stared at the device. The technological gap between them was staggering.
Jefferson stood up. He walked over to the door, picked up the tray of food, and brought it to her. He set it on the bed beside her.
"You need to eat," he said softly.
Cassandra looked at the grey, paste-like substance in the bowl. Her stomach growled loudly, betraying her hesitation. She picked up the spoon and took a small bite. It tasted like bland oatmeal, but it settled heavily in her empty stomach.
Jefferson watched her eat for a moment before speaking again.
"I... Jef-fer-son," he said, practicing the heavy syllables. "You... Ca-san-dra."
He pronounced it Ca-san-dra, placing heavy emphasis on every syllable. It sounded like a royal decree.
Cassandra nodded, swallowing the paste. "Yes."
"Good." Jefferson clasped his hands behind his back. "Med-i-cal wing... now," he instructed slowly. "Doctor... scan you. En-sure... health."
Cassandra's grip on the spoon tightened. Hospitals. Doctors. Scans. The words triggered a new wave of anxiety.
She looked up at him, her eyes wide and fearful.
Jefferson stepped closer. He looked down at her, his expression turning deadly serious.
"I... prom-ise," he said, his voice a low, steady rumble that vibrated in the small room. "No harm. I... pro-tect."
Cassandra looked into his eyes. She saw no deception. Only a fierce, unyielding resolve.
She slowly put the spoon down and stood up.
"Okay," she whispered. "I trust you."
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9.3
I woke up in a freezing, desolate wasteland, my body weak and covered in sores. A mechanical voice in my head informed me that I was a defective rabbit-mutant, and if I didn't conceive within twenty-four hours, I would die permanently.
The terror was suffocating, but the system left me no choice. To survive the brutal cold and the decay of my own heartbeat, I had to force a pregnancy with a stranger.
I stumbled through the snow, my fingers turning blue, until I found a massive, wounded Arctic Fox-mutant in a dark cave. He was a Tier-9 predator, dying and radiating the exact heat I needed to stay alive. I threw away my dignity, crawling into his fur to merge our energies, desperate to trigger the life-reset protocol before my time ran out.
I felt like a monster, forcing myself onto a man who didn't even know I existed, just to keep my own heart beating. How could I ever face him if he woke up? Why did I have to be the one to pay the price for this twisted, mechanical ultimatum?
The fusion was a success, but when I woke up the next morning, the apex predator had me pinned under his massive claws, his fangs inches from my throat. I didn't beg for mercy. I stared into his feral, ice-blue eyes and made a deal that would change everything: I would be his anchor, and he would be my protector. But then I dropped the final, terrifying truth: I was pregnant, and he was the only one who could save us.
8.7
I make my living binding monsters to their promises. But Silas Malphas is the one monster I never should have touched.
As a Thread-Binder, I can see the glowing, invisible strings of loyalty, debt, and lies connecting everyone in the city's supernatural underworld. It makes me the ultimate contract lawyer-and the perfect infiltrator.
My mission is simple: secure a job in the inner circle of the House of Malphas, the city's most ruthless monster syndicate, and steal the Primal Ledger from their lethal heir.
Silas Malphas commands the shadows themselves. He is arrogant, dominant, and terrifyingly elegant. But the most dangerous thing about him isn't his power-it's that when I look at him, I see *nothing*. He is a void in the magical spectrum. No debts. No loyalties. He is completely unreadable.
I was supposed to betray him. But as I am dragged deeper into his golden cage of high-stakes negotiations and blood-soaked boardroom politics, the lines between my mission and my dark attraction to the Beast begin to blur.
When a rival faction launches a deadly coup and my cover is blown, I am left with a terrifying choice. To survive the night, I must forge a blood-oath contract with the very monster I was sent to destroy.
I'm no longer just his lawyer. I'm bound to the Beast.
7.2
Elara Vex had everything-a flawless ice core, the title of prodigy, and a place at the pinnacle of the High Tower. But in one brutal night, it was all ripped away. Her mentor tore the core from her chest. Her fiancé drove a sword through her back. Her own sister smiled as she bled out on the cold marble floor.
When Elara wakes, she's years in the past, mere hours before her core is scheduled to be stolen. This time, she won't be anyone's sacrificial lamb. She shatters her own core with forbidden blood magic and forges something far more terrifying in its place-a bottomless, ravenous Chaos Core that devours magic itself.
Now, branded a worthless cripple and cast into the deadly Abyss, Elara is pulled from the darkness by the outcasts of Elysium Academy-a school for heretics, psychopaths, and everything the Tower despises. Under the tutelage of a reclusive principal who knew her murdered mother, Elara will master her forbidden power and uncover the Tower's darkest secrets.
When the Five Academies Ranking Tournament arrives, Seraphina Vex stands in the arena, draped in white saintess robes, ready to claim ultimate glory. She doesn't know that a ghost from her past has clawed her way back from hell. She doesn't know that Elara is coming-and this time, the prodigal sister isn't asking for mercy. She's bringing chaos.
9.3
My husband Hudson had kept me a medicated ghost for three years, convinced I was unstable. But a cheap pink hair clip, tangled with golden blonde hair in his car, ripped through the chemical haze. The bitter pill he forced me to take wouldn't numb the burning truth, only fuel my awakening.
I was an architect once, but now I was just Cora, a docile wife trapped in his suffocating world. When he saw my shock, his concern was sickeningly sweet as he offered another Xanax. I pretended to swallow the poison, letting it dissolve under my tongue, a constant reminder of my awakening.
Back at the mansion, his massive car deliberately blocked mine, a crude barricade confirming his control. Then, a message from an old intern confirmed my darkest fears: this was domestic abuse. He urged me to check Hudson’s closet, to record everything.
I knew then I was living with a dangerous monster, and my denial shattered. The anger burned, fueled by the bitter taste of that undissolved pill.
That night, Hudson walked in, wearing a hideous, sloppily tied red polka-dot tie. It was a clear, undeniable sign of another woman. My architect’s mind was awake, cold and calculating. "Game on, Hudson." I would make him taste this bitterness back a thousand times.
9.5
Bridget left the office early on her anniversary, her pocket heavy with a custom velvet ring box meant for her fiancé.
But when she pushed open the bedroom door, she found him tangled in their bed with her best friend, Chloe.
"Bridget! Wait, it's not what it looks like!" Jacob stammered, his eyes wide with panic.
"Evidence," Bridget stated coldly, snapping a photo of their naked bodies before fleeing into the freezing New York night.
Desperate to numb the betrayal, she got blackout drunk at an underground lounge and threw herself at a dark, terrifyingly handsome stranger.
She woke up in a penthouse suite alone, finding only a limitless black credit card left on the nightstand.
Humiliated and feeling like a cheap escort, she ran away, swearing to forget the nightmare.
But the nightmare had just begun. When she rushed into the office, she discovered the stranger was Jevon Rocha—the ruthless billionaire CEO of her company.
He didn't fire her. Instead, he trapped her in a twisted, obsessive power game, forcing her into his private life and demanding she report to his penthouse.
Bridget couldn't understand why a ruthless billionaire was so dangerously fixated on a low-level employee.
Until she stumbled upon his secret social media account and saw a crayon drawing of a little kid, captioned with a single word: "Finally."
A wave of absolute horror washed over her. He wasn't just playing games; he was hiding a secret child and a messy, high-stakes family drama.
She refused to be the naive collateral damage in a billionaire's twisted life.
Trembling, Bridget hit "Block" on his profile, determined to escape his dangerous web.
8.9
When Christina woke up in the hospital after a severe car crash, her brain didn't just recover—it mutated. She was suddenly cursed with an agonizing, high-speed hyper-memory.
The first thing her new mind processed was the pristine Army uniform of her fiancé, Major Burke, and the hand of her stepsister, Corrina, casually stroking his shoulder.
Every lie, every gaslighting sigh, and every secret glance between them over the past three years flashed before her eyes with merciless clarity.
Christina immediately called off the engagement, demanding only one thing back: her late mother's old silver pendant.
"A broken pendant? Are you really making a scene over that piece of trash?" Corrina scoffed.
Burke refused to return it, letting his spoiled sister Brielle steal it to wear as a trophy. When Christina finally forced them to hand it over under the threat of a military scandal, the metal was covered in deep, ugly scratches.
The arrogant Clark family treated her like a pathetic, hallucinating widow clinging to a worthless dollar-store trinket. They had no idea what they had actually been holding.
Alone in her apartment, Christina pressed a drop of her blood into the pendant's scratched grooves.
A blue light flared, syncing instantly with her neural implant to unlock the "Ghost Protocol"—a top-secret military archive that also held a hidden clue about her supposedly dead husband.
Looking at the unimaginable power now downloaded directly into her brain, Christina knew the Clarks hadn't just thrown her away. They had handed her the world.