Matched to the monster, p.1
Matched To The Monster, page 1
RENA MARKS
MATCHED
TO THE MONSTER
Rena Marks
I’m human. He’s not.
As the First Daughter of Planet Earth, it’s my duty to set an example. When we enter an agreement to re-build the planet, our prized offerings for bargaining are our young, eligible females, starting with me. It’s my place to lead by example and I’m only too eager. I can hardly wait to see what handsome, mysterious stranger has been matched for me. Who will sweep me off my feet?
I never expected tentacles.
The Match Program put together by the Britonian race assures my people that mates from a human planet would be a perfect pair up for us in exchange for our plentiful gold. But those females think of us as monsters. Instead of them allowing us to honor them, they shiver in fear and wish for us to treat them as slaves. They have been taught this way from birth.
On a planet of beautiful, plentiful females repressed by their own males, who are really the monsters?
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
My Alien Baby
Space Babies
Xeno Sapiens
Alien Stolen
Abducted
Artificial Intelligence
Stargazer Series
The Hunter
Also by Rena Marks
Prologue
Planet Earth, after World War III:
I much prefer my ugly hands being in soil than in water.
I toss the last weed into the basket and sprinkle mulch around the plants before I lean back and stand slowly, stretching out my cramped back. Tiny needles of pain begin to dissipate, making the labors of my love that much more enjoyable.
But then I have to stretch my cramped fingers and I do so by avoiding looking at them, instead staring at my plants artfully arranged by size and pops of color. It was worth it, I decide. Worth it to have had my hands in the dirt.
Finally, I tear my gaze away from the beauty of the gardens to study my wretched hands. Grime is embedded underneath my nails and deep into my cuticles, but somehow that is more soothing to me than the reddened, chafed skin from years of excessive hot water.
I long for the days when the ladies of the manor wore white gloves. I imagine myself in a long, full gown, with dainty slippers on my feet, and satiny gloves shimmering clear up to my elbows. A coronet of dark curls would sit on top my head, and when fancy Presidential House dinner parties were thrown, I wouldn’t be in my room reading a good book, much as I love them. I would be living in the moment, my rich voice giggling with mirth when the attractive man next to me whispers something witty in my ear.
The other men seated at the table would look my way, intrigued with my exotic looks.
I’m a strange cross between my father and my unknown mother who died in childbirth. While not glamorous in real life, in my perpetual fantasy, men are intrigued with my differences.
I’m tiny, barely five feet, delicate-boned. I have my mother’s unusual coloring, a pale, yellow-based skin tone. A tilt to the corners of my eyes. But where my eyes and hair should be dark like hers, my father’s genetics come into play. My hair is a shade of dirty blond, lightened more by the hours I spend in the garden. My eye color is definitely his green, with one difference. A ring of hazel brown that shines like gold around the pupil.
And dimples. I have his dimples. While the traits sound glamorous on their own, mixed together in reality is something completely different. I’m…strange-looking. One can’t put their finger on why, until they know of my mother’s descent.
“First Daughter.”
I jump, startled out of my reverie by Father’s stern voice.
“Daydreaming again, I see.” My father stands ramrod straight, tension edged in the fine lines etched across his forehead, his lips tightened into a straight line of disapproval.
Immediately, I feel guilty. “I finished waxing the floors of the entire downstairs.” A job that would normally take three hours, I’ve honed down to two. Hence my raw hands. “I thought I would clean up the gardens since we have guests—”
“A complete waste of time,” my father snaps, cutting me off mid-sentence. “If my proposal is accepted, the Britonians will wish to re-do the Presidential House gardens anyway!”
I hold my breath so as to not gasp. I’ve spent years cultivating our gardens—the only one of my chores that brings me joy—and the thought of them being ripped apart by strangers makes me want to vomit.
“Are you all right?” Father asks, peering into my face as if I’ve turned green.
“Probably just the sun,” I manage on a weak voice.
“Come along then,” he snorts, and gestures for me to walk up the path, through the flagstone deck I laid myself, and inside to the breakfast area.
I’d like to wash up, but he’s in a mood and it’ll have to wait so instead I sit primly on the wide seat of the breakfast nook, my hands clasped into my lap as to not call attention to them and their filthy state.
I’ll be fine.
In lecture mode, his voice begins to drone. “As First Daughter, you have responsibilities. Some of us were born to lead, whether or not we enjoy that task, it is nevertheless our duty.”
It’s a speech I’ve heard countless times. I can almost repeat it with him, if I wasn’t afraid he’d notice my lips move.
“—so for that reason you will need to go first. You will need to lead by example so our young women will know there is nothing to fear. That with their sacrifice, much like the men of the war sacrificed so much for them, they will be thought of reverently.”
I’ve missed something in his speech and I’m torn between wanting to ask him to repeat himself and risk angering him further, or just going along with it.
But the curiosity is too much for me.
“I’m sorry, go first with what?”
“You will be the first to enter the bride program.”
Bride…? Surely what I’ve heard can’t be correct. My mother’s line was once mail order brides. But by his defensive stance, I know that’s exactly it.
“I cannot! I know nothing of marriage and I’m needed here. I’m First Daughter. Who will keep up the Presidential House? Who will—”
“There’s no need for any of that,” Father says, waving his hand about the air as if my chores are no more consequential than a light dusting of his bedroom.
My breath hisses but I know better than to show my anger.
“You will enter this venture as expected. With grace and dignity and obedience. It is your duty, after all, to set an example for the other women of Earth. If you please me, I will make sure you have the mate held in the highest regard, a leader of his people, someone with wealth, power, and authority. Someone who will know how to rule you with an iron hand.”
And then it hits me. Since my father is the only leader of this planet, this other leader will not be from here.
“An alien?” I manage to gasp. “You’d match me to an alien?”
His anger is palpable as his eyes narrow into slits. The air thickens as I taste his displeasure. “You will do as I say. I have provided this roof over your head! You will smile, you will be demure, you will show these Adroki males how perfect Earth women are.” His voice calms somewhat. “I am sure they will want many more of our women once they have you, the prized First Daughter.”
“I will not!” I’m not sure where the defiance comes from; I have never spoken back. Father is just as taken aback, I can see it in his eyes before he raises his hand and backhands me across the face. I hit the floor, forgetting about my hands as they splay out on the freshly scrubbed marble floor.
“How dare you?” My father’s voice drips ice as I stare at the floor which blurs before me.
I yelp as he grips the back of my hair, yanking my head back.
“You dare to tempt me to sin, evil woman?” he snarls. “Eve of the Gardens, Jezebel, Samson’s Delilah. Like your mother before you”—his hand tightens in my hair and I cry out—“you will decide your own punishment.”
“Please,” I beg, all thoughts of defiance forgotten. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me.”
“Daughter, sweet daughter,” Father soothes, his hand gentling and letting go of my hair. He smooths it from the top of my head, combing it back. And in my distressed state, I curl into his tender touch, needing the contact even as I fear how quickly it can change. “Tell me what your punishment shall be. Spare the rod, spoil the child.” He reminds me gently.
I know what he wants, but I can’t say it. Not that, anything…but that.
“I’ll scrub the floors,” I gasp, then wince because I did that today and they gleam and shine already. “The windows. The walls. The entire Presidential House, not just one wing. Please,” I beg.
He sighs. “You shall be locked in the dungeon.”
I can’t hel p but struggle as his fist tightens, grabbing my ponytail. I scream, my legs kicking as he drags me across the floor by my hair. He flings open the door with one hand, and throws me inside, aware from previous episodes that I’ll grab for the door jambs, the floor, anything that will keep me from heading down there.
I slam against the wall, the air knocked from my lungs as my back crushes against the concrete. Despite the shock—the pain—the gut-wrenching terror of being in the dark forces me forward to the light emanating from around the closing door.
“No!” I scream, reaching the door just as he slams it in my face, closing out the light with one last blink. “NO! Let me out!” My skin, already torn from the water and the gardening, splits open as I pound the heavy wooden door. But the silence is deafening because the dungeon walls, the door, everything is so thick. Soundproof.
I sob uncontrollably, my terror and fear breaking everything inside me. Tears stream down my cheeks and would impede my vision if there was any light at all except for the fading echo of the light blinking out from behind the door encased like a picture behind my eyelids.
I’ll be fine.
And when my sobs quiet—when my eyes finally adjust to the pitch black—is when I turn to face my mother.
Time stops in the dungeon. It might have been hours, it might have been days before the sound of a heavy door opens and light floods the top of the stairs.
I rise from Mother’s lap, careful to rearrange her dress which lies in tatters after all these years. The heavy chains around her wrists clank, despite the fact there’s only bones left and ironically, they can now slide easily off her arms.
Twenty-three years too late.
There’s a numbness inside me this time as I trudge up the stairs to freedom. To the life I was born to, to the life I should be grateful for.
I squint at the bright sunlight as I reach the hallway, my eyes watering.
My father’s smile is almost as bright.
“First Daughter,” he says. “Welcome home.”
He moves quickly into the kitchen, and I follow him. I notice there’s dirt on the floors from where I was backhanded and dragged.
It doesn’t matter. I’ll mop it up later. But I won’t scrub on my hands and knees. Not this time.
“We’re having a dinner tonight to announce the program.” Father rubs his hands together excitedly. “I’ll need you to prepare something special.”
“Of course.”
His smile turns cruel. “You will wear something sweet, practice your demurity, and for God’s sake, leave that book in your room.”
I don’t have many books left. One by one, they’ve disappeared. But that’s my fault for angering him.
And God.
I take a deep breath and bow my head, hiding the burst of hot wetness that stings behind my eyes. “Yes, Father.”
His hand pats my head. “I thought so. You’re a good daughter. And do something with that hair, will you? Use the mirror. Make it pretty.”
My breath catches as he knowingly forces me to sin. Women can’t peer into mirrors without penance.
I hate him and the thought breaks into my mind before I can stop it. More sin. Beneath my breath, I chant my seven sins for penance. To remind me I’m flawed. To remind me I deserved the dungeon. To remind me I’m lucky it wasn’t as long as my mother’s penance.
Lust.
Pride.
Vanity.
Greed.
Wrath.
Sloth.
Envy.
The sins every woman is born with and must avoid at all costs. The sins that plague me continually.
Instead of feeling calmed, I feel dead inside. Trapped in this world by virtue of being born to privilege.
The President’s daughter.
Chapter One
Three Earth months later:
“Are you ready for your matching, First Daughter?”
My father’s voice is as expressionless as always, despite the brevity of the moment. Of course, it can be no other way. As the President of Earth, he is a determined leader for the humans. As his daughter, my role is to lead the young ladies of the planet, the only commodity we seem to have an abundance of.
I will be the first female to enter the newly established matching program.
Despite the trepidation of entering into an archaic system—an arranged marriage, basically—I can’t help but feel excited these many months later. I’m a prime catch, the President of Earth’s only daughter. My match will be just as wonderful, a Prince Charming, a fairytale come true. After all, an example needs to be made of me so I can walk down the aisle with pride.
Or at least, that’s what I tell myself, the other me, the one who loves to bury her head in books. And since most of them are missing, I make my own fantasies in my head.
Seven years ago, our country had welcomed an alien race of beings to live among us. Our planet had nearly been destroyed by the third World War, several continents sinking into the oceans from the aftermath. The nuclear attacks killed three fourths of the population instantly, with many more dying later. Lands were destroyed, and we set global warming into full effect. The remaining people combined into one government system, run by my father.
The Britonians had left their planet with a dying sun. They reached an agreement with Earth to clean up our ruined planet with their modern technology in exchange for a new place to live. Honestly, people thought they might mingle with us more; that we’d learn more about that technology, but they choose to keep amongst themselves. And after most of our men killing themselves with the war even before the nukes were deployed, we were a planet left with ten females to every male.
Though we’d never admit it for lust is a sin, Earth women were panting after the introduction of the new race. Brits are tall and muscular and handsome, with gold skin that turns even more gold as they tan. Their hair runs in various shades of blond and light sandy brown and they live in threesomes—two men to every woman. Yes, Earth women wanted in on that action. If we followed their rule, we’d be at ten human females sharing one single man. And we already know what sharing is like because it’s not uncommon for men to have four and five wives now.
When the Brits proposed our women being matched to other species in need of females, it was a sound proposal that Father welcomed. Naturally there is some trepidation for the women who will leave the planet to live among strangers in the stars, but they have assured us the program is flawlessly engineered to match us perfectly. And knowing what aliens look like is just a bonus.
Even though I’m not supposed to—I know it’s vain and vanity is one of the seven deadly sins for women—I can’t help but imagine myself paired with even one of the handsome aliens the Brits know. And a bit more vanity twists in my belly because I’ll be the first.
“Daughter?”
“Yes, Father,” I reply automatically, as if my mind hasn’t been wandering a mile a minute. I smile benignly as he pats me on the shoulder for my obedience.
I’ve learned obedience, especially in the last few months.
Then, walking side by side, we enter the courtyard.
The first thing I notice is the dazzling sight of the gorgeous, golden Brits. None of their females attend political functions; it’s rumored they’re kept safely locked in towers, much like human females would be if it wasn’t necessary for us to work the fields, the kitchens, and take over a lot of the jobs men used to have when we had more males. Not that I’m complaining, it’s completely necessary to work—after all, many of our men perished in the war trying to save us, the weaker sex. But still, all the dazzling beauty in one location makes me clasp my hands together, hiding their ugly, work-roughened state.
In my agitation, I once again repeat the deadly sins to remind myself of purity.
Lust. Pride. Vanity. Greed. Wrath. Sloth. Envy.
The chatter in the courtyard grows silent as Father and I approach. The silence calms me and I’m able to take in the transformation the Brits managed in such a short amount of time. The greenery is lush and several canopies bring shaded area to the yard. They left the grounds in their natural state instead of adding any type of flooring and my own plantings have been angled further out, but kept.
Tiny white birds known as mingae, introduced by the Brits, flutter delicately from the potted trees. They replace the function of pollinating plants because of our dwindling bees. It looks so beautiful, like the scene for a fairytale wedding.
