My Vengeful Husbands Demand A Remarriage

"What the hell is this game?"

The man's voice was a low growl, vibrating through his tense abdomen and straight into Janna's thighs. She blinked, her vision struggling to cut through the oppressive red haze of the ambient lighting. A wave of vertigo hit her as her brain registered the position she was in: straddling a man's taut waist, her hands pressed against his chest.

Instinct, honed from years of surviving an apocalypse, screamed at her. She tried to roll off, to create distance, to find a weapon. But the muscles in her legs, belonging to a body that was not her own, seized in a spasm of profound weakness. Instead of escaping, she collapsed forward, her cheek smacking hard against his solid pectoral muscle.

The man beneath her let out a pained grunt, a sound thick with murderous intent.

Janna pushed herself up slightly, her gaze falling to her hands. Her fingers were wrapped around something cool and braided. A sticky, slick wetness coated her palm. She lifted her hand into a sliver of dim light. It was a whip, a specially made leather one, and the stickiness was blood.

A cold dread, sharper than any blade, shot through her. Her fingers uncurled instantly, as if the whip had burned her. It fell to the plush carpet with a soft, sickening thud.

The sound broke the spell. The man, Shane, bucked violently. The restraints on his wrists creaked and strained against the metal headboard. His wolf-like ears, a feature her brain was still struggling to process, were pinned back flat against his head in pure fury.

He lifted his head, his eyes glowing with a feral, green light in the darkness. They locked onto hers.

"How long are you going to keep this up?" he snarled, his teeth bared.

Before Janna could form a response, a torrent of information slammed into her consciousness. It was a brutal, overwhelming data dump—memories, emotions, names, faces. A sharp, splitting pain shot through her temples. She cried out, her hands flying to her head, pressing against the agony.

Shane misinterpreted her cry of pain as just another part of the sick, twisted performance. He saw her distraction as an opening. With a surge of raw power that defied the restraints, he arched his back, using his core strength to create a powerful fulcrum.

Janna was thrown from the bed like a rag doll.

The force sent her flying backward. She landed hard on the thick wool carpet, her momentum carrying her until her back slammed into the sharp corner of a nightstand. Pain exploded in her spine, and the air was punched from her lungs. She gasped, a ragged, desperate sound.

Shane didn't waste a second. He bit down on the frayed leather strap binding his right wrist, his canines tearing through it with ease. Freeing one hand, he quickly unbuckled the other. The tall, powerfully built figure rose from the bed, a predator unshackled. He stood over her, his shadow engulfing her small form on the floor. His eyes held nothing but cold, undiluted disgust.

"It's a misunderstanding," Janna rasped, trying to push herself up. Her throat was sandpaper-dry, the words barely audible. It was a lie, of course. She had no idea what was happening, but it was the only defense she could think of.

He didn't listen. He didn't care. He turned his back on her, his broad shoulders stiff with rage, and stormed out of the bedroom.

The heavy electronic door slammed shut with a resounding boom. The vibration caused the ornate wall sconce to flicker, casting dancing shadows across the room. Janna was left alone on the cold floor, her heart hammering against her ribs as she struggled to breathe.

Then, a new voice echoed, not in the room, but directly inside her skull. It was flat, mechanical, devoid of any emotion.

"System Agent Seven activated. Welcome, Host, to the Interstellar Beast World."

Janna flinched, trying to pinpoint the source of the sound.

"In this universe, females are a precious rarity, holding supreme status and universal reverence," the voice continued, relentless. "Under the Empire's polyandrous laws, a single female is legally entitled—and expected—to take multiple beast-men as husbands to ensure the continuation of their bloodlines. Unfortunately, that respect does not extend to you. You are now Janna Stone, the most notorious and despised female in the Galactic Empire. A trust fund baby on the verge of bankruptcy."

She tried to block it out, to focus on the throbbing pain in her back, but the system was insistent. It force-fed her images, memories that weren't hers, playing them like a horror film on the inside of her eyelids. She saw this body's original owner, a woman with her face, screaming insults at six different, handsome men. She saw herself—the original Janna—lashing them with that same bloody whip, calling them "country beasts," her face contorted in a mask of cruel pleasure.

The visceral reality of the memories churned in her stomach. A wave of nausea washed over her, and she retched, a dry, painful heave.

The system wasn't finished.

"Lethal Warning Issued," the mechanical voice stated. "Your trial marriage period ends in two months. At that time, you will lose all legal protection. Your six husbands, filled with justifiable hatred, will be legally permitted to tear you apart."

The words hung in the air, cold and final. Two months. A death sentence.

The apocalyptic survivor inside her took over. Fear was a luxury she couldn't afford. She pushed it down, replaced by the ice-cold calm that had kept her alive for a decade in a dead world.

"How do I get out of this?" she subvocalized, her mind racing.

"There is only one path to survival," the system replied. "You must advance your power, currently stagnant at Level Three, to Level Four within the two-month period. This will trigger the Empire's Advanced Protection Clause for high-value females."

Powers. In her past life, she was a master of plants and space, a dual-ability wielder who could command forests and bend reality. She reached inward, searching for that familiar wellspring of energy.

She found nothing.

It was like reaching into a void. The energy channels in this new body were blocked, sealed shut as if with concrete. The backlash from the failed attempt was immediate. Her vision went black at the edges, and a wave of dizziness forced her to dig her fingers deep into the carpet to stay upright. She was, for all intents and purposes, a powerless cripple.

"Addendum," the system added, its timing impeccable. "The original host has not only failed to advance but has also squandered the entire family trust fund. Your current account balance is insufficient to cover next month's housing security fees."

So, she was dead broke, too. Fantastic.

Leaning heavily on the edge of the bed, Janna pulled her aching body to its feet. She stumbled towards a massive, floor-to-ceiling mirror. The reflection that stared back was a stranger. A face with delicate features, but caked in garish, clown-like makeup. The eyes, however, were the worst part. They were wide with a kind of pathetic, cowardly fear. The original Janna's fear.

With a surge of disgust, she grabbed a wet wipe from the vanity table and began scrubbing furiously at her face. The layers of foundation, eyeshadow, and lipstick came away, revealing a pale but finely-boned face underneath. As the mask disappeared, the eyes in the mirror began to change. The fear receded, replaced by a sharp, cold glint. Her eyes.

"Immediate Threat Detected," the system chimed in. "Your most pressing crisis is not the execution in two months. It is the beast husbands outside your door. Any one of them could enter their heat cycle and, in a fit of rage, end you tonight."

A humorless smile touched Janna's lips. She let out a soft, bitter curse in English, a habit from her old life. "Alright, guys. Let's get this party started."

Apocalypse survival rule number one: Live through the night.