Villainess is being pampered by her beast husbands-Chapter 383 --

The first howl answered the horn, then a second, then a chorus as packs poured out of dens and barracks. The streets filled fast with pounding feet and claws on stone. Leaders shouted directions, but mostly it was instinct; they all turned toward the same place, where the blood‑scent was thickest.

"Hotel side!" someone barked. "Move, move!"

A lean scout skidded around a corner, paws barely touching the ground as she ran along the outer roofline.

As soon as they entered the inn, the smell hit them like a wall.

The first wolves through the doorway stopped, hackles lifting. Blood. Thick, hot, recent. Jackal. Hyena. Mongoose. Boar. Powder‑sharp bite of whatever had punched clean holes in plaster. All of it layered and heavy enough to sting their eyes.

But there were no bodies.

One scout knelt and ran her fingers through a dark pool, then flattened her palm on the floor. The stone was wet and sticky under her hand, but smooth. No grooves. No scuff lines. No deeper drag where something heavy had been pulled away. Just impact and drip, splatter sprayed where blows had landed and then... nothing.

"Nothing’s been dragged," she said, frowning. "They fell here. They bled here. But there’s no trail out. No weight marks. No prints other than the fighters’."

Another checked around the smashed furniture, even peered up along the walls where claws had ripped deep. "No flesh. No fur tufts. No broken teeth," he said. "Just blood."

The ranking wolf moved slowly down the corridor, reading it with nose and eyes. He paused by one shattered chair, then beside a bullet hole near the far wall, then over a patch where the copper reek was strongest. He sniffed high and low. On the floor, nothing but blood and dust. Up near the cracked ceiling... a faint, thin ghost of something else. Dry, cold, high‑riding: wind, old bone, and feather‑scent.

He looked up.

"No bodies," he said. "No drag. They didn’t leave on the ground."

"Then how?" the scout asked.

He didn’t answer, but the way his jaw tightened said he had one ugly guess.

Vultures.

Tribe‑kind, not wild. Called from above, not climbing from below.

The corridor was a slaughterhouse with the meat already taken. Only the stain remained.

’’’

At the cave behind the waterfall, Kaya was about to step onto the narrow path leading away when the thought finally pushed through the noise in her head.

She turned back to Veer.

"It should be done by now, right?" she asked.

Veer shifted Cutie higher in his arms, then met her eyes and gave a short nod. "It’s done."

The memory of that corridor rose sharp and clear between them.

Right after the last beastman had dropped and the gun was still hot in her hand, Kaya had stood in the middle of all that blood and stared at what she’d done. Not with regret—she’d do it again—but with cold calculation. So many bodies. So many small, neat wounds mixed with claw marks.

"Whoever walks in here is going to know this wasn’t just teeth," she’d said quietly. "One look at those holes, and they’ll start asking what we used."

Veer had glanced around—the jackal with his chest blown open, the fox with half his face gone, the boar, the hyena, the mongoose with wood in his neck. A mess made fast.

"You want me to burn them?" he’d asked.

"Can you?" Kaya had shot back immediately.

He’d shaken his head. "My fire isn’t that strong now. I could start it, but to burn this many beasts to ash? We’d be cooking them while half the city surrounds the building. We don’t have that kind of time."

Kaya’s mouth had tightened. "We can’t just leave them. This is too clean and too dirty at the same time. They’ll smell strangers’ blood on wolf stone and pick this scene apart until they hit us."

Veer had watched her for a beat, then his lips had curled into a small, crooked smile.

"You’re forgetting something," he’d said.

"What," she’d snapped. "That you like drama?"

"That I’m vulture‑tribe," he’d corrected, voice low. "And not just that. I lead them." His eyes had gone a shade colder. "I don’t need fire to make corpses disappear."

Before she could answer, he had stepped to a cracked window where night bled in and put two fingers to his lips. The whistle he let out was high and sharp, cutting through the chaos like a blade. It seemed to slice straight up into the sky.

A few heartbeats later, the shadows above the roof had thickened.

They’d come in almost silent—big birds with broad wings and bald, clever heads, circling once before dropping through gaps in tiles and shattered windows. Their talons gripped meat with practiced ease. There was no dragging. No scraping. They worked in pairs and threes, lifting bodies straight up in pieces where they had fallen, tearing and carrying without letting weight smear along the floor. Whatever they couldn’t take in one pass, they ate where it lay, stripping bone clean so quickly it barely had time to cool. Practices where carrion birds dispose of bodies can leave little behind in a surprisingly short time when many work together.[1][4]

"Take it all," Veer had ordered, voice like stone. "Flesh, cloth, bone. Leave nothing that can point a claw at us. Be done before the wolves arrive."

The vultures had obeyed. In minutes, the corridor had gone from packed with broken bodies to just blood and broken things. No limbs. No torsos. No drag marks. Nothing that showed which way the dead had gone—only splashes on the floor where they’d fallen and vanished.

Kaya had watched, throat tight. "Remind me not to annoy your side of the family," she’d muttered.

Veer had only said, "You wanted the bodies gone," and then, "We run now."

Back in the cave, with the waterfall pounding beside them and spray cold on their faces, that whole conversation hung unsaid in the glance they shared.