HOW TO NTR A NETORI PROTAGONIST

It didn't take long to reach home, a plain, weathered wooden shack that looked like it belonged in a history book. The kind of place that blended into the background, unremarkable but somehow unsettling. 

Situated on the western edge of Gendal, where the Death Forest loomed like a predator waiting to pounce, the house seemed barely tethered to reality, clinging to the edges of civilization. 

Still, it was a home. 

The kind of home where survival was its own legacy. I couldn't help but feel a strange weight in my chest, like tasting something bitter that lingered far too long. 

The door groaned under my hand, its sound stretching into the silence like a warning. My body froze in the threshold. 

The house was too quiet, eerily so. 

Then came the sound. 

A sharp crack split the stillness, followed by a scream so raw it made the hair on my neck stand on end. 

I didn't need to guess. The source of the sound was obvious—the small, shadowed room off the kitchen where Jonathan kept Isabella.

His wife. His possession. 

My heart pounded as I stepped inside, the surroundings thick and suffocating. It pressed against me with each step toward that door. I paused, my hand hovering just before the knob, and pushed it open. 

The scene before me churned my stomach into knots, a grotesque twist of cruelty and resignation that I knew too well. 

Isabella Deathclaw. My sister-in-law. The reason I'd ended up dead in the original plot. 

I couldn't stop my mind from conjuring the words TwoBucketWater had used to describe her. That damn perverted author hadn't exaggerated.

If anything, he hadn't gone far enough. 

[ Isabella was pure temptation, her body an insult to restraint. Her breasts were enormous, impossibly heavy, practically tearing her dress apart, the fabric clinging to every curve. Her nipples pressed against the thin material, sharp and unmistakable, like they were taunting anyone foolish enough to look.

Her waist dipped sharply, too perfect to be real, leading to childbearing wilde-hips-wide enough to make anyone's mouth dry, they screamed fertility. Every inch of her screamed indulgence, like she was made to destroy self-control. Her silver hair spilled over her shoulders, wild and untamed, framing a face that was both cruel and inviting.

Her green eyes didn't just look—they hunted, cutting through pretense and dragging out the filthiest thoughts buried inside you. Her pale skin, smooth and untouched, looked like it belonged to someone untouchable, but everything about her made it clear she was built to be anything but.

She didn't have to move, didn't have to speak. Just standing there, battered and torn, she was a weapon, loaded and dangerous, waiting for someone to pull the trigger.] 

But this wasn't a scene of beauty. This was a scene of brutality. 

Isabella was hunched over, her torn dress clinging to her like a cruel reminder of dignity stripped away. Her back was a map of suffering, raw red welts crisscrossing her pale skin. 

Jonathan stood above her, whip still in hand, his face a twisted mask of rage and self-loathing. His words were a venomous tirade, blaming her for everything wrong in his world. 

Her face was buried in her hands, her trembling form the only sign of life. 

Something inside me snapped. 

"Jonathan," I growled, my gaze locking on the pale-skinned man with a polished, almost noble facade. His dark hair and sharp brown eyes gave him the air of a gentleman, but I knew better. Behind that mask lay something vile, something rotten. 

The whip froze mid-air as he turned toward me, his fury morphing into disdain. 

"What do you want, brother?" he spat, letting the whip drop to his side as though it were beneath him. 

I stepped fully into the room, fists clenched. 

"What the hell are you doing?" 

In the past, maybe I would've hesitated. The original owner might have cowered in his shadow. But Jonathan was just a man—no magic, no gifts, no power that could match mine.

There was no reason to fear him, and I didn't. I felt nothing but contempt. 

He sneered, casually tossing the whip onto a chair. "What does it look like? Teaching this slut a lesson. I told her not to go to the flower shop, didn't I? Warned her about those men with bad intentions, but no—she needed her precious freedom. Maybe I should set her completely free... by killing her." He let out a cold, mocking laugh. 

"Are you insane?" My voice cut through his laughter like a blade. "She's your wife, not a punching bag. And while we're at it, if she didn't go to the shop, who the hell would be keeping your lazy ass fed? You think your tantrums pay the bills?" 

"Don't lecture me," he snarled, stepping closer, towering over me. But I didn't flinch. "You don't get to walk in here and act righteous. Don't forget, Magnus—I picked you out of the dirt, took you in when no one else would. You owe me everything. And now you stand here, lecturing your god?" 

I met his glare head-on, my voice like ice. "God? You're nothing but a coward, Jonathan. Beating her won't fix the mess you've made of your life. It won't make you any less pathetic." 

His fists clenched, his eyes narrowing to slits, but he didn't strike. Not yet. 

I glanced at Isabella, still trembling in the corner, a broken shell of herself. "Is this what you've turned into, Jonathan? Hurting the one person who stood by you because you're too weak to face your own failures?" 

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought he might attack. But then he stepped back, his expression cold, detached. 

"Take her, then," he said, his voice dripping with venom. "Fix her. Let's see how long you last." 

I didn't care about his words. I turned to Isabella, kneeling beside her. 

"Sister-in-law," I said.

She flinched at the sound, curling even further into herself. My hands hovered over her, unsure if touch would comfort her or shatter her completely.

I barely managed to get Isabella on her feet, her arm draped over my shoulder like she weighed nothing. She whimpered with every step, her body trembling against me. The shawl I'd wrapped around her barely covered her. Every time I adjusted it, her sharp, shallow breaths reminded me of the damage Jonathan had done.

Suddenly, a knock came a loud, sharp rap that echoed through the thin wooden walls. My head jerked up, the sound slicing through the moment like a blade.

Jonathan's voice from the other side of the house. He sounded annoyed, impatient.

"Belly, is that you?"

I froze. My pulse spiked. Isabella stiffened beside me, her sobs cutting off like someone had flipped a switch. Before I could even think of a response, the door creaked open, and in walked him.

The guy was massive. A wall of a man, built like a bull, with a thick layer of hair covering his arms and a beard that could probably cut glass. He was grinning as he stepped into the dim light, his boots thudding against the floor.

"Yeah, it's me," the man said in a voice so deep it practically shook the walls. He didn't even glance at Isabella or me. His eyes went straight to Jonathan, who had appeared in the doorway, leaning lazily against the frame like he had all the time in the world.

What happened next made my stomach churn.

Jonathan's scowl melted away, replaced by a smirk that made me want to punch him. The burly guy moved toward him, slow and deliberate, like this was some kind of romantic reunion.

Then, without warning, he scooped Jonathan up, scooped him up, like a damned princess in one of those sappy stories people like to tell.

"Haha...I missed you so much"

Jonathan actually laughed, a low, breathy sound that sent a shiver of disgust crawling up my spine. And then they kissed. Not just a quick peck, either.

This was full-on, lips-locked, hands-roaming, absolutely disgusting.

Damn it, how could I forget the thick blood that flows in the veins of dog authors? They always want to paint netori as if the hero is doing some kind of justice by stealing someone else's wife.

And for that, they usually make all the husbands and boyfriends into dumbass molesters, pathetic weaklings, or—when they run out of ideas—make them gay.

The background story for Jonathan and Isabella was like this: when Jonathan married Isabella, they were crossing the Death Forest for a date. Suddenly, bandits attacked. Back then, Jonathan was strong, a man capable of protecting her. And he did—he fought off the bandits to save Isabella.

But he paid the ultimate price.

He lost his cock in the process.

Since then, Jonathan had become violent toward Isabella—a woman he married but could never touch in the way a husband wanted.

Over time, he blamed her for everything. His resentment festered, twisting him into a shell of the man he used to be. That bitterness eventually changed him in more ways than one.

Even his sexual orientation.

Isabella, wracked with guilt over the incident, stayed loyal to him despite the beatings. Even though she knew—knew deep down—that her husband spent his days being pegged by men, she never left.

That guilt chained her to him, a bond forged in suffering.

Isabella let out a choked sob, her fingers tightening on my arm. I looked down at her, and her face was crumpled in on itself, tears streaming down her cheeks faster than before. Her entire body shook, her cries ragged and broken.

And honestly? I couldn't blame her. Seeing her husband, the man who'd spent years tearing her down, kissing another man right in front of her, it wasn't just cruel. It was humiliating. It was vile.

"Now, you behave yourself, Belly," Jonathan said as they finally broke apart, his voice slick with amusement. He didn't even bother looking at her. "I've got plans tonight. Don't wait up."

The burly guy chuckled, grabbing Jonathan by the waist and pulling him close again. "Come on, let's go. I've been waiting all day for this."

They walked out without a second glance, Jonathan laughing like he didn't have a care in the world. Like he wasn't leaving behind a wife who was sobbing her heart out and a brother who wanted to rip his throat out.

The door slammed shut behind them, and the silence that followed was suffocating.

I looked down at Isabella. Her knees buckled, and I had to tighten my grip to keep her upright. She wouldn't stop crying, her sobs coming out in sharp, uneven gasps that made my chest ache in a way I didn't want to acknowledge.

"It's not fair," she whispered, barely audible through her tears. "Why... why does he hate me so much?"

I didn't have an answer. What the hell was I supposed to say? That Jonathan didn't hate her because of anything she'd done? That he hated her because she wasn't what he wanted, and never would be?

I clenched my jaw, anger and disgust swirling in my gut like a storm. "Come on," I said, guiding her forward again. "Let's get you to bed."

Because honestly, what else could I do?