Owed to the Orc Lord (The Monster Matrimony Files #5)

Chapter 1

one

ALIANA

Ifidgeted with the hem of my regulation Sanctuary-issued dress as I stepped through the gleaming portal gateway of the Western Hub.

The fabric had the texture of a burlap sack that had been dunked in starch and left to dry in the sun—which, considering the government was involved, was probably exactly what it was.

Three days ago, I’d received my match notification: Urran, a mid-rank orc with “stable homestead credentials” and “calm temperament.” Translation: boring as hell. But boring was safe. Boring meant I wouldn’t end up as a cautionary tale in next year’s orientation videos.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the look of absolute panic on the officiant’s face when I checked in, as if she’d just realized she’d accidentally scheduled my wedding and my funeral for the same day.

The Western Hub Sanctuary Compound sprawled before me like an otherworldly airport terminal designed by someone who’d taken way too much acid.

Crystal columns stretched toward vaulted ceilings that seemed to shift colors when I wasn’t looking directly at them, and the air hummed with a strange energy that made the tiny hairs on my arms stand on end.

My hair—a crown of tight black curls that I’d spent an hour coaxing into submission this morning—was already beginning to frizz in response to whatever magical nonsense permeated this place.

Fantastic. I was going to meet my arranged monster husband looking like I’d stuck my finger in an electrical socket.

Other brides-to-be shuffled through the processing lines around me, some excited, some teary, all of us bound by the same reality: humanity needed protection, and we were the currency.

The participation was technically voluntary, but when your options were “marry a monster” or “stay locked in a human compound for the rest of your life,” the word “voluntary” did a lot of heavy lifting.

“Appointment code?” the intake clerk asked, not bothering to look up from her screen. Her tone suggested she’d rather be literally anywhere else, which, honestly, was fair.

“M-4379-WH,” I recited from memory. The code had been burned into my brain since the day I’d “consented” to the Monster Matrimony program.

Better matched than snatched. That’s what the recruitment posters had promised, right under a picture of a smiling human woman and her definitely-not-terrifying monster husband.

The propaganda department really needed to work on its Photoshop skills.

The clerk’s fingers danced across her tablet with the enthusiasm of someone filling out their own death certificate. “Aliana Mira. Yes, here you are. Please proceed to Orientation Room C. The officiant will see you shortly.”

I nodded, clutching my small bag of personal items that now comprised my earthly belongings. This was all I was able to bring with me to my new life.

My mother’s silver bracelet weighed heavy on my wrist, the only remnant of a world before the Great Diaspora War. Before humans became an endangered species, which led me to become a bargaining chip with legs.

Orientation Room C was sterile and white, with all the warmth of a dentist’s office. A single curved desk and two chairs were the only furniture.

I settled into the smaller chair, rehearsing what I knew about orcs in my head. Loyal, territorial, traditional.

Urran’s profile had shown a stocky, green-skinned male with small tusks and calm eyes that suggested he’d never had an exciting thought in his life. He grew crops, raised some kind of livestock, and had a “suitable dwelling” according to the match report.

Not exactly the stuff of romance novels, but romance wasn’t the point of the Monster Matrimony Act. Survival was.

And if I had to survive with someone who probably spent his evenings watching grass grow, well, I’d read a lot of books.

The door hissed open, and the officiant swept in, datapad clutched to her chest like a shield. I recognized her from the orientation videos—the same clipped voice, the same severe bun that looked like it was giving her a facelift. But something was off.

Her usual composed expression—the one that said “I have seen some shit and filled out the paperwork for it”—had been replaced with a twitchy sort of anxiety that made my stomach drop.

“Bride Aliana,” she said, not quite meeting my eyes, which was never a good sign. “Welcome to your acclimatization period.”

“Thank you,” I replied, sitting straighter and trying to project confidence I absolutely did not feel. “I’ve completed all the preliminary screenings and—”

“Yes, yes,” she interrupted, fingers dancing nervously over her datapad as if she were trying to defuse a bomb. “About that. There’s been a development.”

My stomach dropped straight through the floor. “A development?”

She cleared her throat. “Your match has been updated.”

“Updated?” I repeated, my voice rising an octave into territory usually reserved for dolphin communication. “What does that mean, ‘updated’? Did Urran back out?”

The thought sent a spike of panic through me. Unmatched humans weren’t allowed outside the Sanctuary walls. We were too vulnerable, too valuable, too much of a liability.

Basically, we were expensive houseplants that could talk.

“Not exactly.” The officiant’s eyes darted to the door as if she were calculating her escape route. “It’s a rather unique situation. Apparently, there was a challenge.”

“A challenge?” My hands gripped the armrests of my chair hard enough to leave marks. “What kind of challenge? Like a bake-off? Please tell me it was a bake-off.”

She opened her mouth, closed it, and pressed her lips together as if she were trying to decide between two equally terrible options.

“Under orcish tradition, recognized under Section 47.3 of the Monster Accord, when a male of sufficient rank invokes a combat trial—” she stopped.

Smoothed the front of her jacket. “I think it would be best if you heard the specifics from your new—that is, from—”

She crossed to her desk and pressed two fingers to her comm panel. “He may enter now.”

The door to Orientation Room C slid open with a whoosh, and the fluorescent lights seemed to dim in deference to the figure that filled the doorway.

Oh, fuck.

He had to duck to enter, which should have been my first clue that my life was about to get exponentially more complicated. Seven feet of rippling green muscle, shoulders broad enough to carry a small vehicle.

Or me, probably while doing other things. Oh God, why was that my first thought?

Arms thick as tree trunks and covered in scars that told stories of battles I couldn’t begin to imagine and definitely didn’t want to.

His skin was a deeper emerald than I’d seen in any of the orc profiles I’d studied, almost black in the shadowed hollows of his muscles.

But it was his face that made my breath catch. His jawline could cut glass, and from it protruded tusks that curved upward like deadly ivory scimitars. They were decorated with intricate silver bands that caught the light.

His hair was dark and pulled back in a warrior’s knot, and his eyes—burning like molten gold—locked onto mine with an intensity that pinned me to my seat more effectively than any restraint.

This was not Urran.

This was so not boring.

“Bride Aliana,” the officiant said, her voice steadier now with the arrival of this orc. “May I present Rakthar of the Iron Fist Clan? Your updated match.”

She stressed the word “updated” as if to say “upgraded.”

She’d dropped her info-bomb and was already backing toward the exit. “I will give you two privacy. I will be waiting just outside with my team when you need me.”

She folded her datapad under one arm, gave a single crisp nod to the room in general, and walked out with the purposeful stride of a woman who had absolutely no intention of being caught in the crossfire.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Just us.

Rakthar’s mouth curved into what I guessed was a smile, though with those tusks, it looked more like a predatory snarl. The expression a wolf might give a rabbit right before dinner.

“Little human,” he rumbled, his voice so deep I felt it in my chest, in my bones, in places I was absolutely not going to think about right now. “The stories of your beauty were not exaggerated.”

I gaped at him, then at the closed door where my last hope of institutional protection had just made her escape, then back at him.

My brain filled with white noise. “There’s been a mistake,” I finally managed, proud that my voice only shook a little. “My match is Urran. Medium-build orc, agricultural specialist, docile temperament, probably has a nice collection of decorative gourds.”

Rakthar laughed, a sound like distant thunder that I felt in my back teeth. “Urran was weak. Unworthy of such a prize.”

“Prize?” I echoed. Heat rose to my cheeks. Definitely from anger and absolutely not from the way his gaze traveled down my body like he was memorizing every curve. Or from the way he looked at my dark skin as if he found it fascinating. “I’m not a—a trophy to be won in some barbaric contest!”

He moved with surprising grace for someone his size, stepping further into the room.

The floor registered his weight but didn’t shake.

I’d expected thunder, and what I got instead was a predator who already knew he didn’t need to announce himself.

He circled me slowly, not touching, not threatening, just assessing.

I refused to turn with him, standing rigid as he came to a stop directly in front of me.

“Not a trophy,” he corrected, and something shifted in his expression, as though he’d decided before he’d even walked through the door. “Mate. My mate.”

His eyes met mine with an openness that was more unsettling than the intensity had been. “I expected compatibility markers. Numbers. Magic resonance. Data.” A pause, measured. “I did not expect you.”

I had absolutely no idea what to do with that sentence.

“I want to speak to a lawyer,” I said flatly. “And HR. Does this place have HR? It should have HR.”

“The weak fall so the strong may rise,” Rakthar said, not unkindly but with the absolute certainty of someone reciting a truth older than the building we were standing in.

He reached out one massive hand and, with an unexpected gentleness that somehow made it worse, tucked a curl behind my ear. His fingers lingered, tracing the shell of my ear. “And I am very, very strong, Aliana Mira.”

The way he said my name—like he was tasting it, savoring it—made something deep inside me tremble. It wasn’t quite fear, but something more complicated. More dangerous. And that terrified me more than his size, his scars, or his tusks ever could.

I was so screwed.