Every living thing is repelled by my corpse-like body . . . but not my wife.



Liches are almost gone, only a handful of us left. I must marry to keep my race from extinction, yet how? No living female will ever stoop so low as to marry a lich. People fear us. They say we are the harbingers of death, bad luck, rot, and decomposition.



In one last bid to carry out my duty, I request a wife through the Temple. She turns out to be a neglected, sickly thing with trembling hands and downcast eyes, seeking an arranged marriage out of despair.



And she's perfect. Her blushes burn hot, her voice rings with feeling, and her kisses taste like summer. She is life personified, all warmth, light, and sweetness, and I crave her like darkness craves the sun.



But will she sacrifice her warm, beating heart to a creature of death like me?



Contains mature themes.