Baron Hadrian announced three nights of feasts to celebrate his heir's marriage. The castle gates were thrown open, beckoning the people of Hadrian to free food and entertainment. All castle troops were mobilized to vet visitors, safeguard important guests and maintain order in the vast courtyard.

Being the least experienced, the ten Crosset guards were to continue patrolling the keep. With guards focused on the grounds and walls to prevent harm from the outside, the bandits had a rare opening to scour the castle for whatever they were looking for. Meanwhile, the Crosset maids, including Arinel, had been set to work in the scullery.

The church bells tolled midnight. Time for the bride and groom to embark on their most important quest. Age-old tradition decreed newlyweds first be chased by a hoard of drunken guests round and round the Great Hall, then up the spiral staircase to their quarters. As wives' tales had it, the bride's garters were a good-luck charm of sorts. Likely the sort that had to do with the bedchambers.

Thanks to Meya's speed and Coris's lightweight frame, the couple dodged the lunging hands, slammed the door and bolt it before any pervert could get a hold of Meya's dress.

Panting and cursing under her breath, Meya slumped against the wood and slid to the floor. Coris staggered off, sinking onto the edge of his enormous bed, which threw up a comfy poof.

Meya surveyed the room. She could probably fit her whole house in here with some wriggle room. The roaring fireplace painted the bare whitewashed walls warm vermillion. The air was light and fresh—a chimney rose from the fireplace to the ceiling, capturing smoke.

The stained-glass windows were thrown wide open, letting the breeze tease the curtains. The naked floor was unblemished—heavy carpets must have protected it from the elements in winter. Shelves bursting with leatherbound books lined the walls, interrupted by paintings of picturesque sceneries and handsome, fierce-looking hounds.

Coris was provided his own heavy wooden study desk laden with thick tomes and scrolls of paper. His armor, sword, shield, bow, quiver and riding gear hung from a stand, shrouded by a thin red veil. The veil wasn't dusty. Yet a still, almost sacred air hung over the vicinity, as if it had been years since it was disturbed by more than a few ceremonial flicks of the feather duster.

Meya's eyes settled last upon the large white bed with its thick red-and-silver blankets. She shivered at the thought of what was bound to happen soon upon it.

"Lady Arinel?"

Meya jolted. She turned to Lord Coris and eked out a meek smile. She was a lowly peasant girl, after all. It felt weird having a nobleman address her as Lady and all that.

"Just Me—I mean, Arinel is fine, my lord."

Coris raised his eyebrows. Meya smiled even as cold fear froze her bowels as if she'd tipped a bucket of ice water down her throat. At last, Coris nodded.

"Arinel," He continued in a rush, "Forgive me, but I must know. Are you still—a virgin?"

Meya's eyes bulged as blood rushed to her cheeks. Her hands trembled in embarrassment and fury.

Ugh, men! How could he demand a girl answer such a private question? Especially his wife on her wedding day? If he'd been a peasant boy, she would've beaten the fluff out of him, but as things were, Meya had little choice but to oblige.

"Y-yes..."

Coris heaved a deep sigh as if he had foreseen her answer, blushing faintly himself. He stared straight into her eyes, solemn like she had never seen,

"If so, we need to talk."

Meya fidgeted under his scrutiny. She bit her lips and forced her eyes in place.

"You must have noticed I have frail health." Coris squeezed his trembling hands together. His face and voice betrayed no emotion, "I don't expect to live much longer. Zier will succeed Father as Baron Hadri—"

Coris broke off, overwhelmed by a bout of hacking coughs. He bent double, his hand clamped over his mouth, jolting with each crippling round.

Meya dashed to the bedside cabinet and rushed back to Coris with a gobletful of water. He managed a nod of thanks, then took a long drink. He handed the goblet back with a sigh. Though Meya was still trembling, Coris continued as if nothing had happened, his voice now hoarse and cracking,

"So, I am giving you a choice. If you choose to consummate our marriage, you will be widowed in a few years—or months. However, you will become Lady Hadrian and, after my death, Zier will provide the best care for you for the rest of your life. If you choose not to, after my death, you can have the marriage annulled on grounds of nonconsummation. Then, you can return to Crosset, start anew with a worthier husband."

Meya's heart thundered in panic. She dithered when it should've been an easy choice. Yes—she wanted to be Lady Arinel, she must shoulder all the name entailed. No—with the bandits on the prowl, anything could happen. She musn't do something permanent as losing her virginity.

She rose to return the goblet to the nightstand, more to stall for time than out of actual necessity.

"There's no need to rush. Think it over carefully," Coris concluded quietly. Meya spun around, but he was no longer paying her attention. He picked up nightclothes chambermaids had laid out on the bed and changed for bedtime.

Meya frowned at his bare back. The more she knew him, the more he perplexed her. He was different from what she'd expected of the rich and the noble. He was dying soon, yet he seemed reluctant to take what was rightfully his, even when it was within his grasp.

"What about you, Lord Coris. What do you want?" Coris turned around at her call, eyebrows raised. Meya hesitated on the proper wording,

"Have you ever—shagged a girl?"

Coris gaped at her as if she'd just emerged through a wall into his room, his cheeks flushing pink.

"Sh-sh-shag?" He stammered.

Oh, Fyr. Nobles don't use shag? What do they use, then?

Cursing and praying to Freda inside her head to keep her cover, Meya steered the discussion well away from dangerous waters,

"You asked if I'm a virgin! Why can't I ask if you've shagged a girl before?"

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Coris gawked, blinking in bewilderment. At last, he surrendered with a sigh and a nod of resignation.

"No, I haven't." He mumbled shamefully. Meya stared in disbelief. He was eighteen and Lord Hadrian. He could've taken any woman he wanted. How could he remain chaste for so long?

"And you're happy to die that way?" Meya traipsed towards him, eyes narrowed in intrigue, "You don't want to know what it's like?"

"It's not a question of what I want, but what I should do." Coris shrugged, a frown undercutting his serious expression,

"No matter what we choose tonight, I won't be living with it for more than a few years. But you still have a future, a lifetime ahead of you. I'm dying. I have no right to take your life away from you or decide it for you. Even as our fathers insist I do."

Coris unfurled an empty smile, then hung his head and played with his fingers. Meya could, at last, make sense of his thinking process, somewhat.

I am giving you a choice.

It was puzzling, something too noble for Meya to grasp or imitate. Usually, when people learned they were about to die, they wouldn't waste time and thought on anything else, would they? They took what they could and made the most out of it. Then along came this fellow, denying opportunities to give others a choice, putting their needs above his own. Was it because he was about to die soon, and it wasn't worth wasting resources on him?

Amidst her disbelief and bafflement, Meya regarded the frail young man with slight respect.

"Well, I want to know what you want, too," she insisted, "Forget about dying for a moment. D'you want to lie with me?"

Coris blinked in surprise, then creaked out a melancholy smile.

"I couldn't remember the last time I was asked what I want." He whispered.

"And I couldn't remember the last time I was given a choice." Meya shook her head, frowning,

"You're the first. You of all people. You're dying. And you still have the galls to care about my life after you?"

"When it comes to death, Arinel, it's not what we take along, but what we leave behind for those who live on. Freda blessed me with the knowledge of my impending death. It's my duty to settle my affairs before I depart," Coris preached in that same serene, enlightened manner.

"What if I don't care?" Meya brushed it aside in frustration, "Me? I want to experience everything for once in my life—If I get the chance. I want to know what it's like to lie with a man before I die. And I don't mind doing it now."

Meya barely knew what she was saying. All she knew was this melancholy idiot exasperated her as much as he intrigued her, that she needed to get her point across and snap him out of his morbid thoughts. She barely realized she was literally asking a boy to shag her.

Oh, Freda. Imagine the look on Dad's face if he ever caught wind of this.

But there was no other way, no time better than now. No one would ever desire Meya Hild the Greeneye, but as beautiful, human Lady Arinel Crosset, she might be blessed with the slightest chance.

In the presence of others, Meya would shrug it off with a laugh or a shudder of derision, but she'd always known how much she craved to experience what her beautiful, sweet sisters may have taken for granted, what the old priest was rambling about this morning.

To be loved.

"Please, Arinel. I know you're offended, but please think about this." Coris begged, "You've always hated me—"

"—But now I don't." Meya cut across, her voice fierce, "You've changed. For the better. And I want to help if I can."

Of course, Meya couldn't have known what Coris had been like, but he seemed to have come a long way from that obnoxious image Arinel painted of him. He appeared to be a kind, selfless man. With his status, he could do great things for lowly people like her. It was a shame for him to die so soon. And he was accepting it so simply?

"You're Coris Hadrian, for Freda's sake! You're a prodigy! You're rich! You're powerful! Why are you giving up so easily when you have everything to lose? Why are you deciding your death day? Why do you let it stop you from living? Shouldn't it be the opposite? Shouldn't you try to live while you still can?"

Panting, Meya glared at the bewildered young man.

"Do you want to lie with me, Lord Coris?" She whispered.

Those miserable, lifeless silvery eyes glanced up to meet hers. A small fire sputtered to life, flickering within. He reached out a trembling hand to caress her cheek.

"Yes, I do." He confessed in a voice just as soft.

This is it. No turning back.

Meya settled down, straddling his thin legs as she stared into his mesmerizing eyes. She let out an unwitting gasp when his cold hands grasped her hips, and Coris let go. Realizing her misstep, she reassured him by edging closer, gripping his shoulders to steady herself. For a long time, they stared, unsure of what to do next or who should take the first plunge.

How did Mum and Dad go about this again?

Meya rested her forehead against his and closed her eyes.

"Promise me. That I'll be your first—and your last." She whispered.

Coris was silent, but his cold breath tickled her chin. He leaned forward until their lips caressed.

"I promise." He murmured.

Coris kissed her once again, much more passionately and fiercely than the first time, and Meya held on as his cold, lifeless lips sent chills rushing through her body. She bit back gasps, and swallowed her embarrassment as his soft, cold hands pushed her dress off her shoulders, and his lips left hers to caress her breasts.

He eased her down on the bed, studying every freckle, blemish and unsightly fold of skin as Meya held her breath and steeled for the disgust that never came. He blinked when he spotted the sunken old scar on her left arm. She told him she'd received it from a viper. He frowned in thought, then silently pressed his lips to it as if hoping it would heal.

As she reached up and undressed him, he took note of her wiry shoulders and veined hands, honed from a life of grueling labor, then hung his head in shame as she exposed his whey-colored skin, his rows of protruding ribs, his sunken belly. She complimented the beautiful gray eyes he'd inherited from his mother. Blushing, he admitted they were his personal favorite as well.

They progressed from sight to touch to taste. His hands dithered on which part of her to savor first, linger upon, and rouse. He gauged her reaction to the sensations—seductive kisses, playful nips, ravenous suckling. Every of her unwitting jolt of pleasure was met with a string of breathless apologies, him having mistaken it for a flinch of pain. Yet, he became less tense with every reassuring stroke of his hair and coy giggle. Beneath his wise and serene facade, he was just as fumbling yet curious as she was, and the realization comforted them both. In this moment, they were no different.

She shed tears as he slipped deep inside her, just as much from the pain as the knowledge that she had now ventured past the point of no return. Coris held and rocked her as she mourned, murmuring unnecessary apologies. As they moved together, the searing pain subsided and morphed into an aching, intoxicating bliss like she had never known.

Tremors shook Coris's spare frame as he fell limp atop her with a long sigh. Meya patted his shivering back as she grudgingly abandoned her push to the summit. Yet, witnessing his pure joy, knowing she had contributed to it, was heartwarming.

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Coris succumbed to exhaustion and was out cold hardly a minute after his grand conquest, snoring as he nestled his head full of itchy, messy brown hair on her bosom. Meya, however, lay awake in the night, wide green eyes staring at the window, which opened to a starry twilight sky. Her heaving chest and fevered breaths mellowed as her body recovered from the intense thrill. However, her heart was still restless with uneasiness.

According to the plan, the bandits will search the castle and its inhabitants for the dowry on their own for up to one month. Meya and the Crossetians' job was to stay out of their way and cooperate when required. If the month was almost over and the dowry wasn't found, the bandits would give them the antidote and go on their way.

Although Meya herself had helped Gillian come up with this scheme, the longer she held the young lord slumbering defenselessly in her arms, the more it troubled her to betray him. Yet, she couldn't bring herself to push him away.

He was so cold, so frail, so thin. And yet, he had been so fair and kind. Perhaps she could trust him with her secret? Could he be relied on to help her and everyone survive this? Would he turn out different from Lord Crosset, who hadn't batted an eyelid as he ordered dozens of his people to their deaths as decoys?

Perhaps she wasn't making the wrong move when she offered him her virginity. It was a gesture of goodwill. The start of a mutually beneficial relationship. Shameful, yes, but if it saved everyone in the entourage, it was a small price to pay. No one would say anything bad of it.

Hugging Coris close, Meya squeezed her eyes shut as she wracked her brain for a new plan, consoling herself it was just a trade. A business exchange. Nothing more. And if she could drive Dad up the castle wall with this latest shenanigan, that was a bonus.

As stubborn and hardened as she was, Meya would take a long time to accept that from the moment Coris Hadrian offered her a choice, she had offered him her heart in return without any means to recover it.