Redeeming The Hearts Of My Beasts

Ina Richmond opened her eyes to a world of pain. Her lungs felt packed with wet sand, every breath a shallow, burning struggle against a weight that crushed her chest. Her hand shot out instinctively, fingers scrabbling against the grimy sheets for the tactical knife she always kept under her pillow. She grabbed nothing but air. Panic, cold and sharp, spiked through her. She tried to roll, to vault off the bed into a defensive crouch, but her body betrayed her. It was heavy. Impossibly heavy. Layers of thick, suffocating fat anchored her to the mattress like slabs of wet concrete. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, irregular rhythm that echoed in the silent room. Before she could process the physical failure, a searing agony ripped through her skull. It wasn't a headache. It felt like someone had jammed a live wire directly into her cerebral cortex. Memories—foreign, violent, disgusting—flooded her mind in a chaotic torrent. She saw herself. Or rather, a woman who looked like her, but whose eyes were dead with cruelty. The woman held a whip studded with rusty barbs. At her feet cowered a boy with golden hair, his back a mess of torn flesh and blood. The sound of the whip cracking filled Ina's head, followed by the boy's muffled sob. More memories surged in, and with them came a dawning, horrifying clarity. This world was not the scorched, zombie-infested wasteland she had fought through for a decade. This was a beast-world, primitive yet governed by a single, ironclad law: females were the absolute rulers. In this realm, women were born with a rare spiritual power that could soothe the violent rampages inherent to all beast-men, and because females were outnumbered a hundred to one, they were worshipped, treasured, and granted unquestioned authority. A single female could—and was expected to—take multiple males as her mates, forming a matriarchal household where her word was law. Males, no matter how powerful their beast forms, lived to serve, protect, and compete for a female's favor. The woman whose memories now infected Ina's mind, a woman who shared her name and face, had twisted this sacred bond into a theater of sadism. The golden-haired boy was not a servant. He was one of her bound mates, and she had spent years perfecting his torment. Ina's stomach heaved. A violent, physical revulsion twisted her gut. She gagged, the taste of bile rising in her throat. That wasn't her. She had spent her life in the apocalypse protecting the weak, not torturing them. "System reboot complete." The voice was mechanical, devoid of emotion, echoing directly inside her brain. It was a sound she hadn't heard since the bombs fell, a sound that meant survival. "Arno?" she thought, her mind reeling. "Affirmative. Military AI Arno online. Synchronization with host Ina Richmond at 12%." "Status report," she demanded internally, forcing herself to breathe through the nausea. "Host vital signs critical. Genetic rejection level: Severe. Cardiac output failing. Toxin accumulation lethal. Immediate medical intervention required." A pause hung in her mind. Then Arno's voice returned, but this time it carried something unusual—a flicker of genuine surprise, a quality so human it made Ina's breath catch. "Alert. Detecting unfamiliar energy signatures. Beast-man genetic markers. Matriarchal societal structure. The apocalypse database is insufficient. Processing... adjusting parameters... recalibrating survival protocols for new world paradigm." Ina could almost feel the AI stretching, learning, evolving in real-time as it absorbed the rules of this alien place. Arno had kept her alive through hell, but even the most advanced military AI had its limits. Now it was rewriting its own code to match a reality neither of them could have imagined. "Recalibration complete. New world data integrated. As an arrival incentive, the Kismet Protocol has authorized a Novice Gift Pack tailored to this realm's biological framework." Damn, Ina thought, a flicker of warmth cutting through the pain. Even after crossing universes, you're still looking out for me. She had always treated Arno as a tool, a weapon. But in moments like this, it felt less like code and more like the closest thing to a partner she had ever known. The AI's cold voice was cut off by a sound from outside the bedroom door. It was faint, barely a whisper against the rotting wood, but Ina's enhanced hearing caught it instantly. A whimper. The high-pitched, desperate sound of an animal waiting to die. It was the boy from the memory. Ina's mind, forged in a decade of brutal survival, snapped into cold assessment. She was in a broken body, trapped in a world she didn't understand, surrounded by males who had every reason to want her dead. The original owner had made this bed of hatred, and now Ina had to lie in it. The woman's memories showed her the truth: a female in this world commanded power, but only if she had mates. A lone, disgraced female was a target—easy prey for rival families, for wild beasts, for anyone who wanted to strip her of her status. Her mates were not just victims to be rescued; they were her lifeline. Their beast-man strength, their combat instincts, their bond to her very soul through the mate contract—these were assets she desperately needed. If the golden-haired boy died in that hallway, if the others were too broken to ever trust her, she would be utterly alone in a world that devoured the weak. Saving him wasn't just morality. It was survival. She needed them, and right now, they needed a monster who wasn't a monster anymore. Ina gritted her teeth. She planted her hands against the mattress, her thick arms trembling with the effort. She pushed. Her knees protested, the joints popping with a sickening crack, but she forced herself upright. The room spun, dark spots dancing in her vision, but she locked her knees and stood. She swayed, catching herself on the peeling wallpaper. The floorboards groaned under her weight as she took a step toward the door. Her bare foot came down on something wet and sticky. She looked down. A dark red smear, already drying, stained the floorboards. The metallic tang of blood filled her nostrils. She reached the door. The metal frame was warped, rusted at the hinges. She grabbed the handle and pulled. It shrieked in protest, the sound loud enough to wake the dead, but it swung open. The hallway was dim, lit only by a flickering emergency light at the far end. The air smelled of mold and old blood. Huddled in the corner, wedged between a rusted pipe and the wall, was a figure. He was thin, too thin, his ribs visible even through the tattered remnants of a shirt. Golden dog ears, matted with dirt and blood, were pressed flat against his skull. His arms were wrapped around his knees, pulling them tight to his chest as if trying to make himself disappear. Angel. The name surfaced from the stolen memories. Angel Baldwin. Her guard. Her victim. At the sound of the door, the boy flinched. His whole body seized, a tremor running through him that rattled his bones. He didn't look up. He just buried his face deeper into his knees, making himself smaller. Ina took a step forward. Her footstep was heavy, a dull thud in the silence. Angel let out a choked whine. It was a sound of pure despair, of a creature that knew pain was coming and had no way to escape it. Arno's interface flashed in her vision. A red progress bar hovered over Angel's head. "Target: Angel Baldwin. Loyalty: -99 (Extreme Hatred). Trust: 0. Psychological Trauma: Critical. Mate Bond Status: Intact but severely damaged. Warning: Subject highly unstable. Survival recommendation: Immediate medical intervention and long-term trust-building protocol." Ina ignored the data. She focused on the boy's back, on the crisscross of scars and fresh wounds that seeped through the cheap fabric. She had to help him. She lowered herself, her knees screaming in protest as she bent down. The cold floor bit into her skin through the thin fabric of her pants. Angel heard her approach. He snapped his head up. His eyes were wide, the blue irises bloodshot and swimming in terror. He looked at her like she was a monster crawling out of a nightmare. Ina reached out. She just wanted to check his pulse, to see how bad it was. The moment her hand moved, Angel screamed. It was a raw, throat-tearing sound. He scrambled backward, his spine hitting the concrete wall with a sickening thud. The impact tore open a half-healed scab on his back, and fresh blood trickled down the wall. "Don't! Please!" he gasped, his voice hoarse and broken. Ina yanked her hand back as if she'd touched a hot stove. The memories of the original owner slammed into her again—the whip, the acid, the laughter. She was the monster under his bed. She took a deep breath, forcing down the bile and the guilt. She couldn't comfort him with words. Not yet. He didn't trust her voice. "Arno," she thought. "Medical assessment." "Subject Angel Baldwin: Lacerations, contusions, second-degree acid burns. Infection risk: 98%. Estimated time to septic shock: 2 hours. Immediate intervention required." Two hours. He would die in this hallway if she did nothing. Ina straightened up. She didn't look at him. She couldn't stand to see that fear directed at her. She turned away, her heavy footsteps echoing as she walked down the hall toward the storage room. Behind her, she heard Angel's breathing hitch. The tension in the air shifted from terror to confusion. He was waiting for the blow that didn't come. She found the storage room door. It was stuck. She threw her weight against it, the wood groaning before it gave way with a crash. Dust billowed out, choking her. She coughed, waving a hand in front of her face, and stepped inside. The room was a mess. Broken furniture, empty bottles, and rat droppings covered the floor. She ransacked the shelves, her thick fingers clumsy with desperation. There. A white box with a red cross, covered in a layer of grime. She grabbed it and flipped it open. Inside lay a few gauze pads, a roll of bandage, and a vial of cloudy liquid. Expired antibiotics. And a half-empty bottle of cheap disinfectant. "Useless," she muttered, slamming the box shut. "Host has received a Novice Gift Pack," Arno's voice cut in, its tone now carrying that new, unsettling warmth. "Acknowledged by the governing system of this realm as an arrival concession. Item: Military-Grade Gene Repair Serum, adapted for beast-world genetic compatibility. Single use." A syringe materialized in her palm. It glowed with a faint blue light, the liquid inside swirling like liquid nitrogen. It was cold against her skin. Ina didn't hesitate. She knew the risks. The original body was a wreck, poisoned and decaying. This serum was the only chance to survive, to become strong enough to save the boy in the hall. She rolled up her sleeve, exposing a flabby arm covered in track marks and bruises. She found a vein, the needle sharp and cold. She plunged it in. The effect was instantaneous. It wasn't medicine. It was napalm. The cold liquid hit her bloodstream and ignited. It felt like millions of microscopic drills boring into her marrow, tearing apart the corrupted cells and rebuilding them from scratch. Ina dropped to her knees. The impact jarred her teeth, but the pain in her bones was worse. She clamped a hand over her mouth, biting down on her own flesh to muffle the scream. She wouldn't give the original owner the satisfaction of hearing her cry. Sweat poured down her face, mixing with the grime. Her vision went white, then black. She collapsed onto the dirty floor of the storage room, her body convulsing as the serum began to rewrite her genetic code. Out in the hallway, Angel lifted his head. He had heard the crash, the muffled groan, the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor. His golden ears twitched, swiveling toward the storage room. He didn't know what game she was playing. He only knew that the monster had fallen.