Reborn As The Beastmen's Wicked Wife

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.