Page 57 of The Monster's Mate

I fly off the bed and jump on her, legs kicking, fists flying, hair pulling. The other two join in and soon the room is filled with screeching, like chickens squawking in a hen house. The fists swing, but even though it’s three on one, I have Skiden’s training under my belt. I feel confident knowing I give as good as I get. And pretty soon, the women are red faced and puffy cheeked, panting like dogs in high heat, hair hanging from their buns in a tangled mess as we’re pulled apart by two guards.

“What in God’s Eden is going on?” Donald shouts.

That makes me snort and it’s not just from the blood, either. Though I’m not bleeding half as bad as Braided Bun. The woman to the right of her has a rapidly swelling eye, the one to the left looks like her lip is split open.

The floor is covered in hair and none of it’s black.

Braided bun spits blood out of her mouth and glares at me. Apparently, she’s the only one who’s allowed to answer Donald.

“This little hellfirebitchattacked me.”

Split Lip gasps and Black Eye stares, mouth agape. Apparently, that’s not a word she should be allowed to use.

I purposely cross myself at her curse, making the movements large and deliberate enough to get the point across.

Braided Bun’s puffy face turns redder as I point out her failings in front of her lord and master.

“Go get some ice,” Donald snaps to the crowd gathered in the hallway. “We can’t have the prophet’s bride look like a train wreck.”

He turns to me. “Get yourself in the shower, or I’ll let them clean you up.”

That doesn’t scare me. It’d simply be a water fight. But the wicked glint in his eye does. I wouldn’t put it past him to bathe me himself.

While my hair’s wet, I slap it into a bun. I can already guess that he’ll have someone do it and they’re going to take revenge over having half their hair pulled out.

The three ladies are huddled together on the bed. They’ve fixed their tragic buns, though it’s a sloppier, softer effect than the tight, rigid comb-through they wore before. Almost as if they couldn’t take handling their hair roughly.

You’re welcome.

“Get this on,” Donald snarls, yanking one of River’s dresses out. An odd shade of… pale buttercup. Not beige and not quite yellow, more muted. I’m glad it’s not the Pepto-pink that’s been washed so many times, it’s faded.

In fact, the blue is muted too. I think that’s all they wear—faded, muted pastels.

“Mother Clara,” Donald says to Braided Bun. “I think we need something to cover her face until she’s presented. The prophet mentioned the aliens are nearby.”

They’re here? They’ll see me. Surely if it’s Skiden, Mejak, or Kalrian, they’ll recognize me. Calbin, or Mikhail would know me.

Mother Clara scuttles off and I see all three of them have changed into different dresses. Their faces still show the marks of the fight, though.

Someone’s bound to notice.

Donald grabs my upper arm, fingers pinching cruelly. “Being the prophet’s next wife doesn’t save you. I’m sure you’ll visit my household often to make amends for what your sister’s done.”

He ties my hands behind my back. That’s nice. A bound bride.

Mother Clara’s boots can be heard clacking down the hallway. She’s carrying a hat with an attached veil, but also has a silk scarf in her hand.

“They might be able to recognize her through the veil but we can cover her face like she’s a prize,” she sneers.

“Great idea,” Donald murmurs.

She blushes with his praise.

“I’m not marrying him.” My voice has a panicked tone because these people are insane. I come from a government run orphanage where there are rules and paperwork and reasons for visits. These people seem to do whatever they want, however they want, including forcing someone to marry against their will.

“Won’t sayI do?” Donald asks. “No problem.”

The rip of duct tape is loud in the room and then he zips it over my mouth, quick as can be.

---