I Woke Up as the Future Villain’s Evil Stepmother

I died trying to save the animals I loved—then woke up as the abusive stepmother of a four-year-old beastkin boy.

According to the original story, Milo will grow up to become a ruthless villain. But right now, he is just a frightened little lynx who sleeps on a filthy blanket, eats pet food from a bowl, and thinks every kindness comes with a price.

I have no mission to complete and no plot to preserve. I only want to teach him three things: he deserves real food, he never has to earn his place at home, and his ridiculously soft ears are absolutely adorable.

There is just one complication.

His cold, powerful father is a tiger—and apparently, he wants to become my real husband.

-- - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - -- - - - -- - - - - - - - - -- - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - -- - - - - - - - - - - - -

I loved anything with fur.

Then I died and woke up as the evil stepmother of a four-year-old beastkin boy who was destined to become a villain.

The first thing I saw was a pair of gray, triangular ears sticking up behind the living-room couch.

They twitched.

My heart twitched with them.

Cat ears.

Actual cat ears.

I forgot the unfamiliar mansion, the headache splitting my skull, and the fact that I had apparently died in my old world. I crossed the room, leaned over the couch, and scooped up the small creature hiding there.

The creature turned out to be a child.

He was painfully thin, with gray hair, spotted ears, and a short tail that had gone rigid with fear. He kicked at me with both legs and bared tiny canine teeth.

“Put me down, you despicable villain! Dad isn't home, but I'm still not scared of you. If you hurt me again, I'll bite you to death.”

I stared at him.

“Despicable villain?”

His folded ears flattened even harder. “A very, very bad person.”

“That's actually not a bad use of the phrase.”

I set him down before he could panic any further, but I couldn't resist brushing one finger over the tuft on the tip of his ear.

It was soft.

Unbelievably soft.

He slapped both hands over his ears and backed away, staring at me as if I had pulled a knife.

A cool mechanical voice sounded inside my mind.

[The child before you is Milo Hale, the future antagonist of this world.]

Memory crashed into me.

This was a modern society where humans and beastkin lived together. Adult beastkin could usually hide their animal traits, but children could not. That made beastkin children easy targets for people who considered animal features proof of inferiority.

The woman whose body I now occupied—Chloe Bennett—had been one of those people.

She had entered a contract marriage with Milo's father, Adrian Hale. In public, she played the elegant wife. In private, she treated his adopted son like an animal.

In the original story, Milo survived her abuse, grew up twisted by hatred, and became a villain.

I swallowed.

All right. I knew how stories like this worked.

“What's my mission?” I asked the system silently. “Change the plot? Maintain the original personality? Raise his approval score?”

[There is no mission.]

I blinked.

[Your circumstances are unusual. The ones who sent you here asked only that you live freely and happily. You are not required to save anyone, preserve any character setting, or complete any assigned plot.]

“Who sent me?”

[I cannot tell you yet.]

The system went quiet.

Milo was still pressed against the far wall, watching me with huge golden-brown eyes.

His stomach growled.

He flinched as if the sound itself might earn punishment, then ran into the kitchen. I followed at a distance and watched him pour dry pet kibble into a bowl. After checking that I had not stopped him, he added half a bowl of milk, crouched on the tile, and began to eat.

I opened the refrigerator.

It was packed with fresh meat, vegetables, eggs, and fruit.

“You eat that for dinner?”

His spoon froze.

“You said beastkin don't deserve human food.” His eyes filled, but he refused to let the tears fall. “Now I can't eat pet food either?”

My chest tightened.

“No. That's not what I meant.” I crouched several feet away so I would not tower over him. “I meant I can cook us a real dinner. Would you wait and eat with me?”

He clutched the bowl and said nothing.

More borrowed memories surfaced. Milo had once had a beastkin nanny who fiercely protected him. Chloe had fired her after she objected to the abuse. The remaining staff had learned that ignoring the child was the safest choice.

He had been alone in a house full of adults.

I washed my hands and took ingredients from the refrigerator. Milo stayed in the corner, sipping milk and tracking my every move.

The smell of seared beef soon filled the kitchen.

His nose twitched.

I made tender steak bites, buttered vegetables, and rice, then put everything on the table. “Dinner's ready.”

“I'm full.”

His kibble was almost untouched.

I lifted him onto a chair, served him a small portion, and began eating my own meal without urging him. Every animal I had cared for in my old life had become curious once it saw me eat.

Milo watched me take three bites.

Then he cautiously tried the beef.

His eyes widened. His ears shot upright and trembled at the tips.

I had to grip my fork to keep from squealing.

This child was criminally adorable.

Milo caught me smiling.

The color drained from his face.

He jumped off the chair, ran to the bathroom, and threw up over the toilet.

I hurried after him. “Milo? Is it the beef? Are you allergic? Should I take you to the ER?”

He looked up, confused despite his terror. “You'd take me to a hospital?”

“Of course. If you're sick, we go to a doctor.”

His mouth shook. “You gave me good food because you poisoned it, didn't you?”

For one stunned second, I could not speak.

Then I sat on the bathroom floor, leaving space between us.

“You watched me cook, and I ate the same food. I didn't poison it.”

He thought about that. Slowly, the panic left his face, replaced by embarrassment.

His short tail drooped.

“Sorry,” he whispered.

I wanted to tell him he had nothing to apologize for. His fear was not his fault. But if I poured reassurance over him now, it would sound like another trap.

So I held up my palm. “Apologies need action. High five?”

Milo raised one hand because I had raised mine. Our palms met with a soft smack.

He looked at his hand. Then at me.

For the first time, curiosity pushed some of the fear from his eyes.

That night, I asked him to bring his blanket to my room. I had always slept with one of my rescued animals curled nearby, and the giant bed felt painfully empty.

“Is that what I have to do because I apologized?” he asked.

“Yes. Keep me company for one night. The bed is huge. You can stay on your side.”

He returned dragging a damp, filthy blanket. He placed it on the floor beside my door and curled on top of it.

Anger flashed through me so fast my vision went white.

I picked him up, carried him into the bedroom, and threw the rotten blanket down the stairs.

“My nest!” he cried. “Don't throw away my nest!”

“It isn't a nest. Children sleep in beds. Where is your room?”

His bedroom was locked. When I finally found the key, dust covered the floor and bare mattress. No one had entered for months.

I brought him back to my room.

“I made a bad assumption,” I said. “You don't have to sleep beside me. The guest room is clean if you'd rather be alone.”

He stared at the comforter. “Are you laughing at me inside?”

“For calling it a nest?”

His ears folded.

Humans often refused to correct beastkin children, then mocked them for speaking differently. Milo had learned to expect humiliation even from silence.

“No. I wasn't laughing. You described a place to sleep, and I understood you. That's what words are for.”

He looked unconvinced, but he climbed onto the far edge of the mattress.

I tucked the blanket around him. When he peeked at me again, he looked so much like a kitten caught stealing treats that my restraint snapped.

I pulled him into a hug, rubbed his little cheeks, and kissed his forehead.

He struggled up, face bright red. “Were you trying to bite my head off? That was too soft. It wouldn't work.”

I laughed. “That was a kiss. People do it to show affection.”

His round eyes grew even rounder.

He pressed his lips together, trying to hide it, but a tiny smile escaped.

It was not trust. Not yet.

But it was a beginning.