My Useless Mute Beta Wife Is A Big Shot!

A groan tears from my throat as consciousness claws its way back—slow, brutal, like surfacing through thick mud after drowning. My skull pounds with a deep, relentless ache, each pulse a hammer striking the inside of my temples. My body feels heavy, my limbs foreign, as though I’ve been through something my mind can’t remember but my body hasn’t forgotten.

I force my eyes open.

The light is dim—gray and sickly, filtering through grime-caked windows that haven’t seen sunlight in years. Everything is blurred at first, shapes swimming in and out of focus like half-remembered dreams. I blink once. Twice. Three times, willing the world to sharpen, to make sense of the chaos pressing against my skull.

Where the hell am I?

I look down.

I’m sitting on a wooden chair. My wrists are bound behind me with coarse, thick rope that bites into my skin with every small movement. The rough fibers dig deep, already chafing, leaving angry red welts that throb with their own dull ache.

I shift slightly, testing the tension.

The rope groans. But it holds.

I scan the room.

An old garage. Abandoned. The air is thick with dust, rust, and something metallic—old blood, perhaps, or only the ghost of it. Dark oil stains spread across the cracked concrete floor in uneven patterns. Rusted tools lie forgotten on workbenches, their surfaces buried beneath years of grime. Shadows gather in the corners like silent sentries, watching, waiting. Faint light seeps through gaps in the corrugated walls, stretching long, distorted shapes across the floor.

The memory returns in broken fragments. The car accident. A blinding flash of headlights.

Then—

A savage blow to the back of my head.

Darkness.

Who the hell did this?

I test the ropes again, shifting my weight carefully, searching for the slightest weakness. The knots are tight, expertly tied... but not impossible.

The rusted door creaks open.

I let my head fall forward, my eyes slipping shut as two men step inside. Their boots echo against the concrete, slow and careless, the footsteps of men convinced they’ve already won. My breathing steadies. My muscles go slack. Unconscious.

Their voices drift through the silence.

"Think we should add more rope? He’s an SS-Class Alpha. Those monsters are unpredictable."

"Nah. We tied him tight enough. He’s not going anywhere."

"The boss told us to be careful. Those Alphas are dangerous once they wake up."

"We’re wearing the masks. Besides, he’s still out cold. You probably hit him harder than you meant to."

"I used just enough force." He pauses before adding, "The boss wants him alive. That’s all that matters."

I listen.

I wait.

Then I move.

My hands twist beneath the ropes—slow at first, then faster, working against the coarse fibers, stretching them, feeling for the slightest give. The knots loosen.

My wrists slip free.

My eyes snap open.

One of them notices. His face drains of color. His mouth falls open in alarm—

Too late.

I surge to my feet in one fluid motion. My fist slams into his jaw before he can even cry out. The crack of bone echoes through the garage, and he crashes to the floor in a limp heap.

I release my pheromones.

Not out of panic. Deliberately.

A crushing wave of Alpha dominance floods the room, heavy enough to suffocate. The air itself seems to thicken beneath its weight. The second man’s eyes widen. His body locks in place for the briefest moment as instinct screams at him to submit.

He lunges anyway.

I sidestep effortlessly and drive my heel into the side of his knee.

Crack.

The sound is sharp and sickening. He screams, collapsing to the concrete, clutching his ruined leg.

I stand over them.

My chest rises and falls in slow, measured breaths. Blood trickles from my temple, warm and sticky, sliding down my cheek before soaking into the collar of my already stained shirt. The metallic taste lingers at the back of my tongue.

My voice is low. Cold. A blade wrapped in silk. "Who the hell are you?"

They groan, scrambling backward across the concrete, clutching their injuries.

"Who sent you?"

They don’t answer. I kick them again and again, each strike measured, each impact a punctuation.

"I said—who is your boss?"

Still, silence.

A cruel smile curves across my lips. Blood trickles from my temple, catching the dim light as it slides down my cheek. I set my shoe on one of their fingers and press down slowly, deliberately, feeling the bones shift beneath the leather.

"How foolish of you," I murmur, almost gently. "Thinking you could take on an SS-Class Alpha so easily."

He screams. The sound is raw. Useless. "Please... please stop..."

"First, tell me who sent you." My voice is calm now, almost bored. "Then I might consider showing mercy."

Before he can answer—

A sharp sting blooms at the back of my neck.

My hand flies up instinctively. My fingers close around something thin and metallic, and I yank it free. A syringe needle. A faint, iridescent liquid still clings to its tip.

What the hell...?

My vision tilts. The edges of the room soften, bending like heat haze rising from asphalt. My knees buckle. The strength drains from my legs as though someone has pulled the plug.

I fall.

My knees slam into the concrete, pain shooting through them as the rough surface bites through the fabric of my trousers. My breath comes in ragged, shallow gasps. My eyelids grow heavier with each passing second, as though an invisible weight is dragging them shut.

Whatever was injected into me is working. I fight it. I cling to consciousness like a drowning man clinging to driftwood in a storm.

A voice drifts from the shadows behind me. Smooth. Silken. Unhurried.

"Looks like my sister-in-law is quite impatient to meet me."

Footsteps echo across the garage.

Slow. Deliberate.

A man steps into the dim light, his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his tailored trousers. A long black coat drapes over his shoulders like a second skin—dark, expensive, immaculate. He looks down at the two groaning men, his expression hovering somewhere between disdain and amusement, as though he were watching a pair of insects struggle to crawl.

"Useless," he says, his voice calm but carrying the weight of absolute authority. "Both of you. You can’t even handle one person."

He nudges one of them lightly with the toe of his polished shoe.

"Get up."

They scramble to their feet, trembling.

"Yes, boss."

My eyes lock on him.

He’s tall. Sharp. His eyes are dark, almost black, holding a glint of something dangerous. His hair is swept back, immaculate—not a single strand out of place. His smile is slow. Practiced. Unsettling.

Who the hell is this?

He turns his gaze to me. His smile widens, as though he’s been waiting for this moment. Waiting to see me on my knees.

"You’re fierce, sister-in-law. Just like your husband."

I glare up at him. My body trembles with the effort of staying upright, of staying conscious. Sweat runs down my face, mixing with the blood trickling from my temple. My vision wavers at the edges, but I refuse to look away.

He kneels in front of me.

The movement is slow, effortless, as though he has all the time in the world. His hand rises, his thumb brushing the blood from the corner of my eye.

"Blue..." he murmurs, almost to himself.

"So these are the fucking blue eyes he’s so obsessed with."

I slap his hand away. The movement costs me more strength than it should. My voice comes out ragged, laced with venom.

"Who the hell are you?"

He laughs—a quiet, unhurried sound, as though I’ve just confirmed something that amuses him.

"So impatient."

A small pause.

"So full of fire."

He raises an open hand toward me, offering it with the exaggerated courtesy of a gentleman.

"I’m your husband’s older brother."

He lets the silence linger just long enough for the words to settle.

Then his smile deepens.

"Soren Stoneheart."