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 5
The medical wing was a nightmare of sterile white light and gleaming chrome.
Cassandra hated it instantly. It smelled like bleach and cold metal.
Dr. Elias Vance stood waiting for them. He was an older man with thinning gray hair and a white lab coat. But it was his eyes that made Cassandra's stomach churn.
He didn't look at her like she was a patient. He looked at her like she was a winning lottery ticket. His pupils were dilated, his gaze darting over her body with a frantic, obsessive hunger.
He spoke rapidly to Jefferson in their native tongue, his hands gesturing wildly toward Cassandra.
Jefferson's posture went rigid. He replied in a low, clipped tone, stepping slightly in front of Cassandra.
"He... scan," Jefferson said to her over his shoulder, switching to his newly formed, broken English. "No touch. Just... light."
Cassandra nodded nervously.
Dr. Vance guided her toward a massive, ring-shaped machine. She lay down on the cold metal table. The ring hummed to life, passing over her body from head to toe, bathing her in a warm, green light.
It took less than thirty seconds.
Dr. Vance rushed to a nearby monitor. As the data populated the screen, his breath caught. He let out a strangled gasp, his hands trembling as he touched the screen.
He spun around, his face flushed red. He started shouting at Jefferson, pointing at the screen, then pointing at Cassandra.
Jefferson's jaw clenched. The muscle in his cheek ticked violently. He stepped toward the doctor, his voice dropping to a dangerous, vibrating growl.
Cassandra sat up on the table, her heart rate spiking. "What's wrong?" she asked, her voice shaking. "Jefferson, what is he saying?"
Jefferson didn't look at her. He kept his eyes locked on the doctor. "He says your biology is... different. He wants a blood sample."
Cassandra's blood ran cold. "No. No needles. You promised."
Dr. Vance ignored Jefferson. He turned his manic eyes on Cassandra. He grabbed a device from a metal tray. It looked like a thick, silver pen, but a long, wicked-looking needle slid out from the tip.
He marched toward her, his face twisted in scientific fanaticism.
Cassandra screamed. She scrambled backward on the table, pressing her spine against the machine. "Get away from me!"
Dr. Vance reached out, his hand aiming for her bare arm.
He never made it.
Jefferson moved faster than the human eye could track.
His large hand shot out, wrapping around Dr. Vance's wrist like a steel vise.
Dr. Vance let out a sharp cry of pain.
"Drop it," Jefferson snarled. He didn't speak English. He spoke his native tongue, but the lethal threat in his voice transcended language.
The air in the room seemed to freeze. The ambient temperature plummeted. The sheer, oppressive weight of Jefferson's Alpha presence flooded the room, suffocating everyone in it. It was an instinctual, uncontrollable eruption-a biological failsafe triggered only when a Prime faced a direct, physical threat. Verbal offenses could be ignored, but the sight of a weapon aimed at her skin unleashed the monster within him entirely.
Dr. Vance's face drained of color. His fingers went limp.
The needle device clattered to the floor.
Jefferson didn't let go. He squeezed harder. Dr. Vance dropped to his knees, whimpering, his earlier arrogance entirely shattered by pure terror.
Jefferson stared down at him for three agonizing seconds. Then, he shoved the doctor's arm away in disgust.
Jefferson turned his back on the trembling doctor. He looked down at the needle device on the floor. He lifted his heavy combat boot and brought it down hard.
The metal crunched, shattering into dozens of useless pieces.
Jefferson took a deep breath. The oppressive weight in the room vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
He turned to Cassandra. The lethal predator was gone. His eyes were soft, filled with a deep, aching concern.
He walked to the table and crouched down so he was at eye level with her.
"I am sorry," he said softly, his English slow and deliberate. "I promised you. No one will harm you."
Cassandra stared at him. Her chest was heaving. She looked at the crushed needle on the floor, then back to Jefferson's face.
He had protected her. Violently, decisively, without a second thought.
"Thank you," she whispered, her voice cracking.
Jefferson nodded once. He stood up and offered her his hand.
Cassandra took it. His grip was firm and grounding.
As he led her out of the medical wing, leaving the terrified doctor on the floor, Cassandra's mind raced.
Why was the doctor so desperate for my blood? she thought, her fingers absentmindedly tracing her own pulse. What is wrong with my body? What kind of disease do I have that they can't even recognize?
The feeling of safety Jefferson provided was real, but the seed of a new, terrifying doubt had been planted deep in her gut.
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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.