Marrying My MothLady: A Monster Brides Romance, page 1
A Monster Brides Romance
By Marilyn Barr
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the author, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” using the contact form on the website below.
Copyright © 2024 Marilyn Barr.
Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Names, characters, and places are products of the author’s imagination.
This work was created in whole by humans.
Front cover image by Kit Fox
Edited by Lill Farrell
Chapter Heading and scene break images by Leigh Cover Designs
Printed in the United States of America.
First printing edition 2024.
www.marilynbarr.com/
Table of Contents
Dedication
Content Warnings
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Sneak Peek Scene from Betrothed to the Yeti
More Monster Bride Standalone Romances
About the Author:
More Books by Marilyn Bar
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Dedication
To Grandfather Queen, the best storyteller I ever met. I’ll never forget when you convinced your retirement community that you discovered the elusive coal fly, an imaginary bug. Your storytelling had everyone on the edge of their seats as you told them about your adventures in the coal mines while tagging the coal-eating flies. They never suspected you made it up. Rest in peace.
And to my fellow UC and Crohn’s disease warriors. I lived the first chapter in this book when a potential employer followed me into the bathroom during a colitis flare. Needless to say, I didn’t take the job. May your bathrooms always have an empty stall with plenty of toilet paper and a functional flush.
Content Warnings
This book contains my experience with congenital ulcerative colitis and Crohn’s disease, including flares and intestinal distress, before I managed the conditions into remission. While Horus relies on prescription medication, diet, and Millie’s healing hum to seek remission, there is no magical cure in this book or in life. The couple shares a consensual relationship between a human and a monster with spicy, open-door scenes. Also contained in this book are kidnapping, minor violence, one night stand resulting in pregnancy, and mention of parent death (not on the page or described in detail.)
Chapter 1
Horus
I didn’t attend graduate school for ten years with student loans up to my eyeballs to woo investors. I ran for the hills to escape the social scene of Ohio State University…but I guess deep in the Appalachian Mountains wasn’t far enough.
Half my audience is bored to death. The other half watch me with hero-worship shining in their expressions. Unfortunately, the people rolling their eyes and playing with the office supplies on their tables are the ones with the money we need.
“Wing-by-wing, I believe we can keep the Danaus plexippus off the endangered species list. With the help of the Winged Wildlife and Abundant Earth Foundation, the monarch butterfly migration path will withstand the development of West Virginia’s population centers. Thank you for your time and for listening to our proposal. Any questions?” I take my first deep breath since I started my hour-long presentation. My glasses balance on the tip of my nose, so I remove them to polish the lenses with the cuff of my sleeve—an obvious sign that I’m done.
Baked. Over it. One foot out the door.
Ugh, public speaking. There’s a reason I study bugs and not people.
After a slight snafu when I dropped my notes, the ordeal is over…and not a moment too soon. My anxiety kicked off a colitis flare, so the sooner I can excuse myself to the restroom, the better. I hate that I’m the face of this project. My personal connection to the main stockholder of the Winged Wildlife and Abundant Earth Foundation is the only reason I’m here. Any other potential investor and I’d be deep in the forest, pretending my spam folder ate my invitation.
I wanted to pump my fists in the air at my triumphant finish, but I sweated through my dress shirt on the drive to Lakin Wildlife Center. If the investors buy into my plan, this center will double in size with a butterfly conservation habitat built behind it. Maybe a few honeybee hives on the edge of the property too. The other entomologists, ecologists, and conservationists hold their breath while Mr. Eli Carter Jr. swishes his diet cola around his mouth. After the locals voted down our tax levy, his foundation is our last hope of saving the monarch butterfly. We can’t go back to the ballot after such a disastrous defeat the first time.
“This butterfly park,” Eli says with a thick Appalachian accent. “Can any bug use it?”
I’m sorry, what? It’s not like I can post a yellow jacket at the door as a bouncer.
“Yes, sir,” I say, masking my annoyance with a toothy grin, “the native wildflowers should attract any pollinator within a mile radius—maybe further, depending on the species. There won’t be pesticides or herbicides to detract from the colonization efforts.”
“Even the coal fly?”
A what? If I hadn’t grown up in the Ohio Valley, I wouldn’t know about the elusive coal fly. As the only flying insect to live primarily underground, ecologists and conservationists ignore the coal fly. If ninety-nine percent of the world’s plant life burnt to a crisp, the coal fly wouldn’t notice. They lay their eggs on the underside of sunflowers, so they are warmed by the sun but constantly shaded. But otherwise, the pests ignore the surface ecosystem of our planet.
“I have a row of sunflowers planned in zone C of diagram 27 here,” I say, flipping backward through my presentation until I reach diagram 27. “The coal fly eggs—”
“Good, good,” he interrupts. “I knew there was a reason why I liked you.” The room laughs with him. He elbows his daughter Amber until she forces a fake smile that looks more like a wolf baring its fangs. She has the grace to wait for him to turn before rolling her eyes and huffing in annoyance.
No love lost between us, Amber.
I believe I found someone who doesn’t want to be here more than me. At one point, after four Mothman Shooters and a half-dozen beers, I thought she was beautiful in the dim lighting of a dive bar. Her shiny brown hair hangs in pretty waves around her face, but her pointed features are always twisted into boredom and disgust. She must use a million filters on her social media feed because her pictures look nothing like her. For one, in those pictures, she’s smiling. A real smile. Whoever takes those pictures knows a joyful, youthful Amber. My sober experiences with her have ranged from unpleasant to horrific.
“Punch and homemade cookies at the back of the room. Tour the grounds. The Lakin Conservation Center staff is on hand if you wish for a guide,” I snap as my colitis flare sends lava down my spine. Oh no, not here. I point at the refreshment table as I storm down the aisle to the door. The best way to delay a flare is to calm my stress levels. I can breathe with my head between my knees in the bathroom, empty my bowels, and return right as rain.
I just need a second alone.
“Come sit next to me, boy, so we can discuss the coal fly,” Eli calls out over the dim of the crowd.
Of course, the one thing I’ll never get in my personal hell is a second alone.
“I’m going to visit the restroom and—”
“Great, I’ll come with you,” he says, slamming his pen onto his blank notebook. His belly rocks the table as he stands. Amber scrambles to catch their half-filled plastic cups before they tip. “I could drain my main vein.”
“Hello Amber,” I say with a wince. My belly greets her with a gurgle, too. If she responds, I don’t hear it over the rush of blood to my ears.
I need a toilet. Now.
With a tug of his jeans, Eli leads the way to the two-stall bathroom. My stomach tightens with anxiety and the coffee I chugged this morning. I knew coffee without food would mess with me, but coffee with food messes with me, too. At least I didn’t drink my usual energy drink. It’s why I carry essential oil spray in my backpack…as an emergency air freshener.
Wait, my backpack! I’m not carrying my usual backpack because I opted for a more formal briefcase. I don’t have my antacids, my charcoal tablets, my air freshening spray, or my loperamide. What was I thinking—traveling to a war zone without my arsenal of digestive aids?
The churning intensifies. A cramp under my belly button bends me forward, so I waddle like a duck.
“I’m glad we have a chance to speak privately,” Eli says as the door closes behind us. He checks the stalls as I long for a private moment in one. With a flick of the entrance’s lock, he secures our doom. “How much do you want this bug park?”
&nbs
“Sir, the butterfly migration area will not only save the monarch butterfly, but also dozens of native plants that depend on them for pollination. If we want our ecosystem to continue to provide large predators to balance our rodent populations, changing leaves to attract tourists, and not to mention—oxygen for all of us to breathe, we must protect the bugs—”
“Yes, yes, yes,” he says with a pat on my lower back. The motion ripples around my intestines. I clench my buttocks and round my back. Sweat beads glide down my cheeks as if I ran a mile. “Science, science, political lines. I want to know what you—Horus—you want.”
Oh, God help me.
“I want to conserve this forest,” I mutter. I’m risking the sanctity of my khaki pants and my dignity with each second that passes. If this isn’t taking one for the environmental team, I don’t know what is.
Groan.
I wrap my arms around my belly and double over. Will I have time to unbuckle my belt? Curse my vanity for wearing my extra-large, “Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires” belt buckle cover! I’ll waste precious seconds removing it, my leather belt, and no! No!
Button fly pants.
“Excuse me a moment,” I wail, as I barrel into the stall. I slap the door with my left hand as my right works out the puzzle that holds my pants up.
“Oh yeah, let me hold your door,” Eli says with a chuckle.
Hold my door! He’s in the blast zone! Has the man no self-preservation instincts? I flush as soon as I sit down to muffle my explosion, but what can I do when the man stands less than a foot from me?
“The door has a latch—”
“I ask because I’m about to make you an offer you can’t refuse,” he says, peeking through the gap between the door and the stall frame. I glare at the beady, brown eye to establish dominance until my next round of cramping squeezes my eyes shut. “Amber told me about your little problem—”
“A baby’s not a problem, sir,” I utter as I grind my molars to keep from crying out. My problem is my stress levels! The peristalsis of my intestines won’t stop! “We had a one-night-stand, and while not in love, we can co-parent if that’s what Amber wants.”
“Co-parenting is not an option.” Eli’s tone darkens.
My body responds violently, and I’m forced to flush again.
“If she wishes to terminate the pregnancy, it’s her body. She’s early enough—”
“Amber told too many damn people! She’s pushing her belly out for ‘baby-bump pictures’ all over the damn internet! I’m fixin’ to run for mayor this fall, and I’ve got my sights on being governor in the next five years. I won’t have her wild ways running our name through the mud. No. She needs someone to tame her.”
“Perhaps she could volunteer here,” I say with a grunt. Oh, what I wouldn’t do for my emergency pack of activated charcoal capsules and antacids! “With the planned expansion, she could take advantage of many different opportunities to conserve our environment and help the community—on camera.”
“I like your thinking. That’s why I’m going to enjoy having you as my son-in-law. Your ideas for the future will keep Amber on the straight and narrow. With photo opportunities in nature, helping at the bug park, and a baby on her hip, she won’t have time to dance on bars or, well…I guess she can’t get more knocked up than she already is. It was only a matter of time—with her mama dying when she was a wee thing and all.”
“I’m so sorry, sir,” I murmur as my brain tries to split time between my social and intestinal traumas. “She seemed like a nice girl the night we met. I’m sorry we haven’t spent time together since, but we don’t enjoy the same lifestyle—”
“That’s what I’m counting on you to change about her!” He lets go of the door to pace the small space. I watch his shiny, cordovan loafers from under the stall door. “Look, I’m a businessman and willing to bargain. Do you want this butterfly park? It’ll be my wedding present.”
His words cramp a stitch into my side as my liver seizes to release more bile and enzymes. Poor abused organ is tapped out. Instead of calming myself to get out of this stall, my pulse pounds. My dress shirt has the consistency of used tissue, and my pants carry a layer of grime from the floor. The beds of my nails are blue with decreased blood flow as my digestive system hogs my resources. If I don’t get my stress under control, I may faint.
“Alright, I know it’s a shock that a father would pay for his daughter’s marriage. But we know she likes you, right? How else did she conceive Junior? Even if you get divorced down the road, the park’s still yours…and I’ll throw in the deed to my part of the forest. You know my land stretches to the Crown City Wildlife Area. You can fit a lot of butterflies in acreage of that size. What do you say—will you marry Amber?”
“Marry Amber? Has she given a sign—” My protests, citing Amber’s disinterest in my sober self and lack of dates after our tryst, die on my tongue as another spasm forces me to flush. If this goes on much longer, I’ll be in danger of dehydration. This is worse than any torture a man can endure.
“Sign the papers at the wedding? You drive a hard bargain for such a sickly, weak guy,” he says as he stops in front of the door. I’m confronted by the beady, brown eye in the door’s crack again. “Alright, I give. You get Winged Wildlife and Abundant Earth, your butterfly park, and the National Forest acreage at the wedding. When you sign the marriage certificate, we will notarize the whole package—good and proper. That way there’s no messy business on my baby girl’s honeymoon.”
I groan as a ripple of pain dances under my ribs.
“Don’t worry about the honeymoon, wedding, or even the ring,” he says with a belly laugh that twists mine in knots. “Women love planning fluffy stuff. Amber will wear her Grand Mammy’s ring, starting tonight. Flash her rock around the internet instead of her indiscretion!”
“Shouldn’t we talk to her?” My words are broken up by gulps of air.
“See? Always looking for what people see,” he says with another belly laugh, as if we’re old chums in a bar—not practically dying in a public restroom. “She will meet you in the proposed space for the garden out back and you will propose. Don’t worry. She’s saying yes…or she’s cut off from my money.”
Thankfully, his loafers recede from view. I place my hand over my heart and take deep breaths until its tempo slows. With one last flush, I begin the tedious task of cleanup. My tongue runs over my cracked, dry lips. Once I’m free, I may dunk my head in the punchbowl to hydrate. Then I’ll load up on medication and head outside. My body will recalibrate itself in the cool, damp May air…before I propose to a woman who hates me.
Frankly, I don’t know her well enough to hate her.
“Oh, and Horus?”
“Yes, sir?”
“You should see a doctor. No man should shit like that.”
“Thank you. I have several specialists for congenital ulcerative colitis.”
“Does that mean you’ll pass the shits onto Junior?”
“Most likely did, sir,” I say as I wobble to standing. I’m dizzy from lack of water and sunken blood sugar. But oh, so close to freedom…until the next flare-up.
“Lord, help us,” he mutters as he walks out the door.
“Yes, indeed,” I say to my reflection in the mirror. Time to clean up my mess…with Amber.
Chapter 2
Horus, Late July
What a piece of work. My future-wifey is as slimy as her father. She accepted my proposal with the radiance of cubic zirconium. She stained my shirt with her makeup and fake tanning lotion by enveloping me in a cloud of perfume that probably cost more than my beater truck. Weeks have passed and I’m still stewing with rage. While planting kisses on my cheek and promptly wiping them off, she spun a tale of our secret romance. Amazing, since I don’t remember dating her…ever.
The real secret is I don’t remember how we met or the one night we spent together. I was drunk as a skunk at an electronic music festival on Ohio University’s campus with my fraternity brothers. With my New Year’s resolution to attend one social event not related to work, I forced myself to go. Good music drowning out any chance of conversation is my jam. I blacked out with my brothers at an off-campus dive bar and woke up at home with Amber raiding my fridge. Six weeks later, I got a message on social media saying she was pregnant with my baby. Why couldn’t this be a catfishing scam?
