Claimed By The Ruthless Lycan Warlord

The wind tore at her clothes, a violent force ripping away any semblance of control. Areli's stomach lurched into her throat as the ground rushed up to meet her. This wasn't a dream. This was a goddamn freefall.

She opened her mouth to scream, but the air was a solid wall, shoving the sound right back down her throat. Her lungs burned. Her eyes watered. Below her, a thick mesh of giant vines appeared, a desperate patch of green against the dark rock.

Instinct took over. She tucked her chin, wrapped her arms around her head, and braced for impact.

The first layer of vines snapped like dry twigs. The second layer slowed her down just enough to keep her from splattering, but the third layer hit her like a freight train. A sickening crack echoed in her chest. Ribs. Definitely ribs.

She slammed into the damp, rotting earth. The impact emptied her lungs completely. Pain, sharp and blinding, exploded through her torso. She coughed, tasting copper. Blood splattered onto the dark soil inches from her face.

Then, the memories hit. Not hers. Someone else's. A woman with the same face, screaming as two figures loomed over her on the cliff edge. A blonde woman with a vicious smile—Gloria. A man with cold eyes—Eugene. The shove. The fall. And beneath that horror, deeper still, the inherited knowledge of this savage world seeped in—a world where females were as rare as gemstones. The Beast Realm's iron law: females ruled, males served. A single female could take multiple mates, building a family around her protection and provision. Harming a female was an unforgivable sin, punished by the entire clan. Matriarchs commanded, and even the strongest warrior bent his knee. Because without females, there was no future. Areli's original self had known this bone-deep, and now so did she.

Areli gasped, her fingers digging into the mud. She wasn't just a survivor; she was a mark. A target. And if those two thought she was dead, she needed to stay that way for as long as possible.

Heavy footsteps. Not human. The crunch of dead leaves under massive weight. The scent of musk and raw power hit her nostrils.

Move. Now.

Areli grabbed a handful of wet dirt and smeared it across her face, caking her pale skin, hiding the delicate features. She squeezed her eyes shut, slowing her breathing, forcing her racing heart to quiet even as her ribs screamed in protest.

A snort. Hot, fetid breath washed over her neck. Something wet and rough—no, a nose—sniffed her skin. Every muscle in her body locked up. Fear, primal and absolute, sent a violent shudder through her frame.

A blinding flash of light seared through her eyelids. The heavy weight shifted. The sound of bones popping, flesh stretching, and a low groan filled the silence.

When Areli dared to crack one eye open, two massive men stood over her. They wore crude leather armor, muscles bulging beneath the hides. One had hair like a lion's mane, the other sleek and dark as midnight.

The lion-man crouched down. His voice was a gravelly rumble. "Still breathing, little female?"

Areli forced her eyes open fully. The primal terror of a wild beast's hot breath still clung to her skin, making her heart hammer frantically against her broken ribs. But as she registered their humanoid forms, the rational mind of a modern survivor forcefully suppressed the animalistic panic. Beasts could not be reasoned with, but men—even savage, towering men like these—had motives, rules, and egos. And in this female-scarce world, her gender was a shield. She was a rare female; they would not dare harm her without cause. That meant she had more than a chance—it was leverage. She looked past the intimidating exterior, assessing the tactical situation. Two Tier-1 shifters. Maybe higher. Fighting was suicide. Running was impossible. Her only weapon was their perception of her.

She let her lower lip tremble. "P-please," she stammered, her voice raspy and weak. "I fell... I was gathering herbs... I slipped."

The dark-haired man—Doyle—stepped closer. His eyes were like chips of ice. He grabbed her wrist, yanking her hand up to inspect it. His thumb rubbed roughly across her palm.

"Herbs?" Doyle sneered. "These hands are softer than a cub's ass. No calluses. No stains. You're lying."

Areli's heart skipped a beat. Shit. She was a biochemist in her past life, not a botanist. Her hands were pristine.

Panic flared, but she channeled it. She whimpered, yanking her hand back as if burned. In the same motion, she rubbed her palm frantically against the jagged edge of a nearby rock. The rough stone tore into her skin, leaving angry red scratches and smearing dirt into the wounds.

"I-I wear gloves!" she cried out, clutching her injured hand to her chest. "Matriarch Erline demands it! She says our hands are meant for healing, that we must protect them from the volatile toxins of the plants we harvest. If we are caught bare-handed, we are beaten... I lost my thick hide gloves when I fell! Please, I just want to go home."

Doyle's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

"Back off, Doyle." A new voice.

Areli looked up. Another man had arrived. He carried a tactical backpack and moved with a predator's grace. Curt. He looked annoyed, but not cruel.

Curt knelt beside her, unscrewing the cap of his canteen. He held it to her lips. "Drink."

Areli grasped the canteen with both hands, making sure her trembling was visible. She gulped the water down, deliberately letting some spill down her chin and neck, highlighting her vulnerability.

"Easy," Curt grunted, pulling the canteen away. His hand reached toward her torso. "Let me check your ribs."

Areli flinched violently. She scrambled backward, her back hitting the rock wall, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps. It wasn't entirely an act; the pain was real, and the memory of Eugene's hands shoving her was fresh.

Curt froze instantly, his ingrained male code screaming at him never to cause a female distress. His hands shot up, palms out. "Hey. I'm not going to hurt you. Just checking for breaks."

The lion-man—Brown—scratched his beard, looking uncomfortable. "Don't scare the female, Curt."

Areli swallowed hard. She forced the tears that had been pooling in her eyes to spill over. Big, fat drops rolled down her dirt-streaked cheeks. But she lifted her chin, a stubborn glint in her eye.

"I don't want your pity," she whispered, her voice cracking but firm. "I can walk."

Brown shifted his weight, looking even more unsettled. "Nobody said you couldn't."

Curt sighed, pulling off his heavy jacket. He draped it over her shoulders. The warmth was overwhelming, smelling of pine and smoke. "We'll take you out of here. Can't leave you for the scavengers."

Doyle scoffed. "She's dead weight. We have a mission."

Areli looked up at Curt, her eyes wide with a terror that was only half-faked. The fear of being left behind, of being found by Gloria's people, was a genuine ice pick in her gut.

Curt stepped between her and Doyle. "We're taking her. That's final."

Brown nodded. "Let's move."

Before Areli could protest, Curt scooped her up into his arms. She let her head fall against his chest, hiding her face in the fabric of his shirt. As the group began to move through the dense forest, Areli closed her eyes.

The fear faded, replaced by a cold, calculating stillness. She had survived the fall. She had survived the beasts. Now, she just had to survive the war. And when the time came, Gloria and Eugene would pay.