Baron Hadrian announced there would be a celebration for three consecutive nights. With the castle gates open for the people of Hadrian to enter and enjoy free food and entertainment, all castle troops were mobilized to vet visitors, safeguard important guests and ensure order in the castle’s wide courtyard.

As they were the least experienced, the ten Crosset guards were to continue patrolling the castle. With all guards focused on the castle grounds and walls to prevent harm coming in from outside, it was a rare opening for the bandits 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. It was time for the bride and groom to embark upon their most important mission, which got off to a not-so-pretty start. Meya and Coris were chased by a hoard of drunk relatives and noble guests through the Great Hall and all the way to Coris’s bedchambers on the third floor, all clamoring after Meya’s garters as a good-luck charm.

Thanks to Meya’s speed and Coris’s lightweight frame, they were able to dodge the lunges, slam the door and bolt it behind them before those sticky hands could get a hold of Meya’s dress.

Panting and cursing under her breath, Meya fell hard against the wood then slid down to the floor. Coris staggered away and slumped onto the edge of his enormous bed, which threw up a comfy-sounding poof.

An uncomfortable silence fell as Meya surveyed the room. It was about two times larger than her whole cottage, lit warm vermillion by the flickering fireplace at one end, and several torches on the limewashed walls.

The air was light and fresh; there was a chimney leading up from the fireplace to the ceiling which captured smoke. The stained-glass windows were thrown wide open, letting the breeze inside to tease the delicate curtains.

The floor was bare, yet Meya noticed lighter swathes on the stone; heavy carpets had protected it from the elements in colder seasons. Shelves of leather-bound books lined the walls, interspersed 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 nearby, shrouded by a thin red veil. The veil wasn’t dusty, but there was a sacred, untouched air hanging about the war apparels, setting them apart from other items in the room.

Meya’s gaze set last upon the large white bed with its thick red-and-gold blankets, and she shivered as she thought about what was bound to happen soon upon it.

“Lady Arinel.”

Meya jolted. Glancing at the young Hadrian heir, she eked out a meek smile. She was a lowly peasant girl, after all. It was disconcerting having a nobleman address her as lady and all that.

“Just Me—I mean, Arinel is fine, my Lord.”

Coris raised his eyebrows, and though Meya went on smiling, her insides felt chilled as though she had just tipped a bucket of ice water down her throat. At long last, Coris nodded.

“Arinel,” He went on in a rush. “Do forgive my boorishness, but I must know—” He faltered, hesitant,

“Are you still—a virgin?”

Meya’s eyes almost bulged. She felt all the blood in her body rushing to her cheeks, and her hands trembled in embarrassment and fury.

Ugh, men! How could he demand a girl answer such a private question? Especially his own wife on wedding day? So what if a girl got a lover before? What was the difference? Would he divorce her now if the answer was no?

If the boy before her had been a fellow peasant, she might have already beaten the fluff out of him. But as things were, Meya could only blush and force out an answer.

“Y-yes...”

Coris heaved a deep sigh as though he had foreseen her answer, coloring slightly himself. He raised his gaze and stared into her eyes, solemn and tense like she had never seen.

“If so, we need to talk.”

Meya shifted under the intense scrutiny. She bit her lip and forced her eyes to maintain contact.

“You must have noticed I have frail health.” Coris squeezed his trembling hands, joined in his lap, yet his gaze and his voice remained firm and calm. “I don’t expect to live much longer. Zier is the one who will succeed Father as Baron Hadri—”

Coris broke off, overwhelmed by a severe bout of coughing. The young lord bent double, jolting with each crippling round, his hand clamped over his mouth.

Meya sprang up and shot to the bedside table, poured some water into a glass, then rushed back to Coris. He managed a nod of thanks then took a long drink. Heaving a tortured sigh, he handed the glass back to Meya. Though Meya could still feel herself shaking, Coris continued his talk as if nothing had happened, his voice now hoarse and cracking.

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

Meya strode back and refilled the cup, thinking hard. Setting down the jug, she turned back and found Coris’s silvery eyes gazing back into hers.

“There’s no need to rush. Think over it carefully.” His voice was gentle yet solemn. He picked up the nightclothes chambermaids had laid out for him on the bed, then made as if to change for bedtime.

Meya frowned at his back. The more she learned of him, the more he perplexed her. He was different from what she had had in mind 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?” Burning curiosity prompted Meya to call out. Coris turned back, eyebrows raised. Meya hesitated on the proper wording.

“Have you ever—shagged a girl?”

It seemed her choice of wording wasn’t ideal. 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 that her cover won’t be blown, Meya plowed on, steering the subject away from dangerous waters.

“You asked me if I’m a virgin! Why couldn’t I ask if you’ve ever shagged a girl before?”

Coris blinked. He stared at her with a wary frown, then surrendered with a soft sigh and a resigned nod.

“No, I haven’t.” The young lord mumbled, shameful, and it became Meya’s turn to blink and stare in disbelief. He was seventeen and Lord Hadrian. He could’ve taken any woman he wanted. How could he possibly remain a virgin?

“And you’re happy to die that way?” Meya drifted towards him, eyes narrowed, intrigued. “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 creaked up his usual empty grin, then hung his head and played with his fingers. And Meya could at long last make sense of his thinking process. Somewhat.

I am giving you a choice.

It was puzzling. Something too noble for her to grasp or imitate. Usually, once 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. Yet, there was this fellow, denying all 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?

Meya found it hard to believe and comprehend, but she also felt something else. A slight respect, perhaps.

“Well, I want to know what you want, too.” Meya insisted. “Forget about dying for a moment. D’you want to lie with me?”

Coris blinked, unsettled, then creaked out a tired 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 glared at the frail young man before her, fists clenched. She shook her head, frowning in confusion.

“You are 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 that this melancholic idiot exasperated her as much as he intrigued her, that she needed to get her message across and snap him out of his morbid beliefs. She barely realized she is 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, she would shrug it off with a laugh or a shudder of derision, but she had always known how much she craved to experience what her beautiful, sweet sisters may have taken for granted, what the old priest was rambling on about this morning.

To be loved.

“Please, Arinel. I know you’re offended, but please think about this.” Coris beseeched, “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 for sure what Coris had been like, but he seemed to have come a very long way from that obnoxious image Arinel painted of him. He seemed to be a kind, selfless man. With his status, he could do great things for the 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, and Meya saw a small fire coming 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, grasping 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 she could feel his cold breath on her cheeks. 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 froze, blinking, 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 his 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, to linger upon, to rouse. He gauged her reaction to the different 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, with every reassuring stroke on his hair and coy giggle, he became less tense. 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 then 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 own push to the summit. Yet, simply witnessing his pure joy, knowing she had contributed to it, was heartwarming nevertheless.

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 out to a starry twilight sky. Her heaving chests and fevered breaths mellowed as her body recovered from the intense thrill, but her heart was still restless with uneasiness.

According to the plan, for up to one full month, the bandits will search the castle and its inhabitants for the dowry on their own. 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 to a mutually beneficial relationship. Shameful, yes. But if it saved her life and the lives of everyone else in the entourage, then it was a small price to pay, and 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 that 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’s 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.