Chapter 10: Boat Ride Interlude
The yacht cut through the turquoise water, a stark white contrast against the endless blue. Vil stood at the railing, a vision of calculated elegance in a flowing white sundress and wedge heels, a wide-brimmed hat and dark sunglasses shielding his meticulously sunblocked skin from the savage sun. He looked like he’d walked off a resort advertisement, not a family snorkeling trip.
Leona, hauling Vil’s oversized bag with one hand, kept his other arm firmly locked around Vil’s waist. His own getup was practical—swim shorts, a loose tank, sandals, his tawny hair wrestled into a high bun. The sunglasses hid his eyes, but not the lazy smirk on his face. “Relax, Princess. You’re stiff as a board.”
“I am perfectly relaxed,” Vil murmured, offering a flawless smile to his father and Leona’s family further down the deck. “I am also currently comprised of sixty percent zinc oxide. Movement is discouraged.”
Cheka, buzzing with manic energy in his tiny life vest, tugged at Leona’s shorts. “Uncle Leona! The fishes! Now!”
“Alright, alright, pup. Keep your fur on.” Leona released Vil, ruffled Cheka’s hair, and in one fluid motion, peeled off his tank top. He shot a glance at Vil. “Last chance. The water’s perfect.”
“And my hair is perfect here,” Vil said, not turning from the view. “I’ll observe.”
With a grunt that was almost a laugh, Leona scooped up Cheka and vaulted over the side. The splash was enormous. Vil didn’t flinch, but a slight, genuine smile touched his lips as he watched Leona surface, shaking water from his face like a big cat, Cheka shrieking with delight.
For the next twenty minutes, Leona played aquatic guide for his nephew, pointing out parrotfish and a lazy turtle. His voice, carrying easily over the water, was a low, steady rumble Vil wasn’t used to hearing—patient, almost gentle. It was disconcerting. More disconcerting was the way Leona kept looking back at the yacht, his gaze landing on Vil with a slowly growing gleam of pure mischief.
Vil, deciding the performance required a touch of ‘relaxed omega in love,’ finally retreated to a cushioned bench. He carefully removed his hat and sunglasses, then, with the graceful efficiency of a stage costume change, slid the sundress off over his head. Beneath it, he wore a two-piece swimsuit in a vibrant, lacquer red. The bottoms were a moderate cut, the top a simple triangle style. The material was thin, almost liquid in how it clung to the dip of his waist, the gentle swell of his chest. He arranged himself artfully on the lounger, one knee bent, a picture of nonchalant beauty.
He didn’t see Leona hand Cheka off to his mother on the swim platform.
He didn’t see Leona pull himself silently onto the deck, water streaming from his bun and down the defined planes of his chest and back.
He only realized when a shadow fell over him. He opened his violet eyes.
Leona was standing there, dripping on the teak deck. His green eyes, now visible, scanned Vil from head to toe—a slow, deliberate sweep that felt more invasive than the sun. A muscle in his jaw twitched. His plan to just grab him and go suddenly stalled, his brain short-circuiting for a single, dizzying second.
Damn.
The word was a punch to his own gut. Vil looked…divine. The red was a shock against his platinum hair and sun-kissed skin, a bold claim on the pristine white yacht. It was ridiculous. It was utterly captivating. It made the memory of Vil in sleep shorts, the outline of his body in the guest room, flare in Leona’s mind with unbearable clarity.
“See something you like?” Vil asked, his tone expertly balanced between teasing and cool. He was in character. He had to be.
It broke the spell. Leona’s lazy grin returned, wider and more predatory. “Just wondering how much that sunscreen is waterproof.”
Vil’s composure slipped a fraction. “What?”
In one swift motion, Leona bent, slid his hands under Vil’s back and knees, and hoisted him up.
“Leona! Put me down this instant!” Vil’s command was sharp, but a betraying laugh bubbled under it. He clutched at Leona’s wet shoulders, his nails digging in.
“You said you wanted to observe,” Leona said, striding toward the railing. “Up close observation’s better.”
“I will ruin your life! My hair!”
“It’ll dry.”
Vil’s father looked up from his book, raising a brow. Leona’s brother chuckled, shaking his head.
Leona reached the side. He held Vil for a suspended moment, the omega’s weight solid and surprisingly pliant in his arms, the red bikini stark against his own tanned skin. He caught the genuine alarm and startling excitement in Vil’s wide violet eyes. No performance here. This was real.
“Welcome to the itinerary, Princess.”
He threw him.
Vil’s yelp was cut off by the massive splash. He plunged deep, the cool water a shocking embrace. He surfaced a second later, gasping, his perfectly styled hair now a sleek, wet sheet plastered to his head and neck. He pushed it back, sputtering, and looked up at Leona, who was now leaning on the railing, laughing—a real, deep, unrestrained sound.
“You are an absolute savage!” Vil shouted, treading water. But he was laughing too, the sound bright and surprised.
“You look better wet,” Leona called down, the truth of the statement hitting him harder than he intended. Vil, flushed and disheveled and glaring, was a thousand times more real than the polished statue on the lounger. The red bikini top clung transparently, leaving little to the imagination.
Leona’s own breath caught. The devious plan had worked. Now he had to get back in the water with him. The thought sent a jolt through him that had nothing to do with the heat of the sun.
Vil treaded water, his heart hammering against his ribs. The shock was fading, replaced by a bubbling, effervescent feeling he couldn’t name. Leona’s laughter still echoed in his ears. He watched as the alpha prince, still grinning that infuriating, handsome grin, pushed off from the railing and dove in, cutting the water between them with powerful, easy strokes.
He swam right up to him, stopping so close their legs almost brushed underwater. Leona’s green eyes were bright with triumph and something else, something hotter. Water beaded on his lashes.
“Survived?” Leona asked, his voice low.
“Barely,” Vil said, trying to muster his dignity. It was impossible. “This was assault.”
“This was fun.” Leona’s gaze flickered down, just for a heartbeat, to Vil’s mouth. “Admit it.”
Vil didn’t admit it. He couldn’t. Because admitting that the thrill racing through his veins was fun, that Leona’s roughhousing had felt more genuine than any scripted romance, would mean the performance was well and truly over. And he had no idea what came next.
He sank a little lower in the water, letting it cover his shoulders. “My sunscreen is definitely compromised,” he said, turning the subject with all the grace he could salvage. “I’ll be freckled for weeks.”
Leona just kept smiling, that lazy, knowing smile, and Vil knew, with a sinking, exhilarating certainty, that he’d lost this round completely.
Leona just kept smiling, that lazy, knowing smile, and Vil knew, with a sinking, exhilarating certainty, that he’d lost this round completely. The cool water did nothing to douse the heat spreading under his skin, a heat that had everything to do with Leona’s proximity and the way his gaze kept dropping.
“You’re staring,” Vil murmured, the words barely audible over the gentle lap of waves against the hull.
“Yeah,” Leona said, no denial, just a simple, gruff acknowledgement. He pushed a hand through his own hair, slicking it back, then reached up. With a single, sharp tug, he pulled the band from his bun. Tawny hair, dark with seawater, tumbled around his shoulders and down his back, framing the sharp lines of his face. The transformation was subtle but profound; the prince looked wilder, untethered.
He closed the distance between them with a slow kick. His hands found Vil’s waist under the water, the touch shockingly warm against the cool. He pulled their bodies close, aligning them from chest to thigh in the buoyant saltwater.
Vil’s breath hitched. He braced his hands against Leona’s shoulders, feeling the solid, corded muscle there. “What are you—“
“They’re watching,” Leona whispered, his lips close to Vil’s ear. His voice was a low, intimate rumble that vibrated through Vil’s core. “From the deck. Gotta look convincing, right?”
It was the perfect excuse, the foundational lie of their entire arrangement. Leona used it. His hands, rough and certain, slid from Vil’s waist to the small of his back, pressing them tighter together. The thin material of Vil’s bikini bottom was no barrier against the hard line of Leona’s swim trunks.
He nuzzled into the space beneath Vil’s jaw, his damp hair tickling Vil’s skin. His mouth found the frantic pulse at the side of Vil’s throat. The kiss was not a chaste peck. It was slow, a deliberate press of lips, followed by the damp scrape of teeth.
A jolt, electric and desperate, shot straight down Vil’s spine. He arched into it, a helpless, involuntary response. His head fell back, giving Leona more access. His own fingers dug into Leona’s shoulders.
“Leona,” he breathed, a warning without any force.
“Just selling it,” Leona murmured against his skin, his breath hot. One hand drifted up Vil’s slick side, tracing his ribs before his thumb brushed, deliberately, over the peaked, hardened nipple beneath the red fabric.
Vil gasped. The sound was swallowed by the sea and the distant laughter from the yacht. It was too much. It was not enough. Every rational thought dissolved into pure sensation—the salt, the sun, the relentless hands mapping his body as if claiming it.
He had no choice but to lean into it, to let his body go pliant against Leona’s, to tilt his head and offer his neck. The performance was a lifeline he clung to. This is for them. This is the role.
But the ache building low in his stomach, the liquid fire in his veins, the way his own hands now slid to tangle in the wet mess of Leona’s hair—that was all his. He didn’t mind. The truth of it was terrifying and bright.
Leona finally pulled back just enough to look at him. His green eyes were darkened, the cynical glint replaced by something raw and hungry. Water dripped from his hair onto Vil’s face. They were both breathing hard, their quiet pants mingling in the narrow space between their mouths.
From the deck, it would look like a lovers’ embrace, a whispered, intimate moment.
They both knew it was a robbery in broad daylight.
Leona’s thumb stroked once more, gently now, over the spot on Vil’s neck he’d just marked. He didn’t apologize. He didn’t grin. He just watched Vil, waiting for the fallout, his own body taut with a tension that had nothing to do with treading water.
Vil’s exhale was a shaky cloud of sound in the space between their mouths. His fingers, still tangled in Leona’s hair, tensed. The performance was a shattering mirror around his feet. Leona’s breath was hot, his own was gone, and the only script left was the frantic beat of his pulse against his ribs.
“That,” Vil managed, his voice wrecked, “was beyond the scope of our agreement.”
“You faked a moan,” Leona shot back, his own voice gravel. His hands hadn’t moved from Vil’s skin. “Call it creative interpretation.”
The distance was a lie. He could feel every shift of muscle, every tremor. The water around them was suddenly too warm, too intimate. From the deck, it would look like a pause. It felt like the held breath before a fall.
Leona’s gaze dropped to Vil’s mouth again. That stubborn, perfect mouth. He remembered the blush from the guest room, the shock on Vil’s face when he’d been thrown overboard. This was different. This was a crack in the porcelain, and he was the one who’d put it there. A reckless, clawing need overtook the calculation. Selling it wasn’t enough. He needed to prove something, to himself, to the flawless man in his arms.
Forget the audience. Forget the deal.
Leona then went for it and kissed him.
It wasn’t gentle. It was a claiming, a collision. His mouth slanted over Vil’s, a hot, salt-edged press that dissolved the last pretense of choreography. Vil stiffened for a splintered second, a sound of pure surprise swallowed by the kiss. Then his hands fisted in Leona’s hair, pulling him closer, deeper, as his body went liquid and responsive.
The world narrowed to the slick heat of Vil’s mouth opening under his, to the taste of salt and something uniquely, devastatingly sweet. Leona’s tongue swept in, a bold, exploring stroke that made Vil shudder against him. One of Leona’s hands slid up to cup the back of Vil’s head, holding him steady, while the other anchored at the small of his back, pressing their lower bodies into an alignment that drew a ragged groan from Leona’s throat.
Vil kissed back with a desperate, unraveling artistry. It was all instinct and hunger, a performance shed for something terrifyingly real. He bit Leona’s lower lip, a sharp, sweet sting, and Leona growled, the vibration passing straight from his chest into Vil’s.
They broke apart gasping, foreheads pressed together. Water sloshed between them. Vil’s eyes were wide, his pupils blown, his usually pristine lips swollen and damp.
“Creative enough for you?” Leona rasped, his own breath coming in rough pulls.
Vil didn’t answer. He just stared, his mind a whited-out blank where his lines should have been. The applause from the yacht was distant, mocking. Cheka was cheering. His father was probably smiling that knowing, approving smile.
Leona’s thumb brushed the corner of Vil’s wet mouth, a gesture that felt more intimate than the kiss. “We should get out.”
Vil simply nodded, mute. He let Leona guide him, one hand firm on his elbow, toward the swim platform. His body moved on autopilot, climbing the ladder, water sheeting from his red bikini. The sun felt alien on his skin, a spotlight he hadn’t asked for.
Leona hauled himself up behind him, dripping on the deck. He grabbed two towels from a stack, thrust one at Vil without looking at him, and roughly dragged the other over his own head. The silence between them was a thick, new thing. It was full of teeth.
“Well!” Leona’s brother, Falena, clapped his hands together, his grin broad. “Nothing like the ocean to, ah, bring people closer!”
Vil’s father merely offered a slow, appreciative nod, his eyes missing nothing.
Wrapped in the towel, Vil found his voice. It was his public voice, smooth and calibrated, but it felt like someone else was using it. “It was… refreshing.” He aimed a perfect, glittering smile at Leona, a masterpiece of deception. “Thank you for the encouragement, darling.”
The endearment, part of their script, landed between them like a dropped weapon. Leona met his gaze, his green eyes unreadable. He gave a single, lazy nod.
“Anytime.”
The word was a promise, or a threat. Vil couldn’t tell. He only knew the carefully drawn lines of their arrangement were gone, washed away by the sea and sealed by a kiss that had felt anything but fake. He stood there, chilled beneath the towel, as Leona turned to ruffle Cheka’s hair, the picture of nonchalance.
Inside, Vil was perfectly, utterly still. He was assessing the damage, taking stock of the fracture. He could still taste him. That was the problem. He could still taste Leona, and the part of him that was always performing had no idea what to do with that.
He could still taste Leona, and the part of him that was always performing had no idea what to do with that. The salt was gone, but the heat of his mouth remained, a phantom brand. Vil kept the towel hugged tight around his shoulders, a flimsy barrier against the memory.
The ride back to the villa was a blur of cheerful noise he didn’t process. He nodded at the right times, smiled when a laugh seemed required. His father, settling into a deck chair beside him, spoke low. “He seems quite taken with you.”
Vil’s smile didn’t waver. It felt carved from ice. “The feeling is mutual.”
He watched Leona instead, a fixed point in the chaos. Leona was leaning against the railing, listening to Falena, his profile sharp against the setting sun. He’d thrown a dry shirt on but hadn’t buttoned it, the white fabric hanging open. His swim trunks were still damp, clinging to his hips.
As the yacht docked, Leona pushed off the railing and grabbed a towel from a stack. He ran it over his head once more, then dragged it down his chest. The motion was absent, practical. He pulled the shirt off entirely, tossing it onto a bench, and began properly drying his neck and arms.
Leona also looked devastating with his hair wet and his shirt off in nothing but his swim trunks with water running down his muscles. He was drying himself off with a towel and his biceps flexed. Vil gulped hard.
The simple, athletic motion was obscenely intimate. Each pass of the terrycloth revealed the powerful definition of his shoulders, the water tracing paths through the dusting of hair on his chest, down the cut of his abdomen. Vil’s mouth went dry. This wasn’t the curated rawness of a photoshoot. This was just a man, tired, a little sun-drunk, wiping the sea from his skin. It was a hundred times more affecting.
Leona caught him staring. His hands stilled. The towel hung from one fist. His green eyes locked onto Vil’s, holding the gaze for three long heartbeats. A question was in them, and a challenge. See something you like? It hung in the air, louder than Cheka’s chatter.
Vil was the first to look away, turning to gather his sun hat and bag. His fingers fumbled on the clasp.
“Everyone out,” Falena boomed, shepherding the group toward the gangplank. “Dinner on the terrace in an hour. No fancy dress, just family.”
The villa’s courtyard was a haven of trailing bougainvillea and the scent of grilled meat. Vil murmured something about washing off the salt and escaped to the guest wing. He closed the bathroom door and leaned against it, listening to the distant, muffled sounds of the family.
He examined his reflection. His hair was a lost cause, waves forming as it dried. A faint pink flush colored his chest and shoulders where the sunscreen had failed. His lips still looked tender. He pressed two fingers to them.
Selling it. The excuse was ash in his mouth. He’d been sold. He’d bought it himself, willingly, with a kiss that scraped his soul bare.
A sharp knock rattled the door. “You planning to hide in there all night?” Leona’s voice, close and annoyed, came through the wood.
“I’m exfoliating,” Vil replied, his voice impressively steady. “It’s a multi-step process.”
“Yeah, well, dinner’s almost ready. Get out here.” A pause. “They’re asking for you.”
Vil squeezed his eyes shut. Right. The performance must continue. He opened the door.
Leona had changed into clean, low-slung linen pants and a simple black t-shirt. He was barefoot. He looked Vil up and down, taking in his fresh clothes, the damp hair. “You okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Vil brushed past him, heading for the main terrace. “It was just a swim.”
Leona’s hand shot out, closing around Vil’s wrist. The contact was electric, a live wire. He pulled Vil to a stop, not roughly, but with an inevitability. “Cut the crap for two seconds.”
Vil looked down at the hand encircling his wrist, then back up. “You first. You started the… creative interpretation.”
“And you finished it.” Leona’s voice dropped. “You kissed me back like you meant it.”
The truth of it sat between them, undeniable. Vil didn’t pull his wrist away. “Maybe I’m just that good an actor.”
“Maybe you’re full of shit.” Leona’s thumb moved, a slow stroke over Vil’s racing pulse. “This is getting tangled.”
“It was always tangled. We just pretended it was simple.” Vil finally tugged his hand free. The absence of his touch was a shock. “We have dinner. We smile. We get through the week. That’s the deal.”
“The deal’s changed.”
“How?”
Leona didn’t answer immediately. He ran a hand through his hair, frustration in the gesture. The scent of him, sun-warmed skin and clean cotton, filled the hallway. “I don’t know. But that kiss wasn’t in the contract. And I don’t like wanting things I didn’t agree to want.”
The admission was like a stone dropped into still water. Vil stared at him. This was Leona without the shield, just for a second—annoyed, bewildered, brutally honest. It was more vulnerable than any touch.
Footsteps echoed on the tile. “Uncle! Vil! The food’s getting cold!” Cheka’s voice sliced the tension like a knife.
Leona’s mask slid back into place, the lazy indifference. He gestured toward the terrace. “After you, Princess.”
Dinner was a cacophony of platters and overlapping stories. Vil sat beside Leona, their arms occasionally brushing. Every point of contact was a small, sharp shock. He ate without tasting anything, laughing at Falena’s jokes on autopilot.
Under the table, Leona’s knee pressed against his. It wasn’t an accident. It was a steady, insistent pressure. Vil didn’t move away.
He just let it burn, a silent concession. When Leona leaned over to refill his water glass, his breath ghosted over Vil’s ear. “Stop thinking so loud.”
Vil looked straight ahead, cutting a piece of fish. “I’m not thinking anything.”
“Liar.” Leona settled back, his shoulder now a solid line of heat against Vil’s. “Your tells are microscopic, but they’re there. Your left eye twitches. Just a little.”
Vil froze, his fork halfway to his mouth. He’d had directors and coaches for years. No one had ever noticed that.
The knowledge felt more invasive than the kiss. Leona was watching him, really watching, past the performance. He was seeing the machinery. And he wasn’t turning away.
As dessert was served, Vil felt the week stretching before him, not as a series of acts to be performed, but as a cliff edge. He’d agreed to a script, but Leona had just ripped it to pieces. The panic was cold, but beneath it, a terrifying thread of excitement unspooled.
He didn’t know the next line. For the first time in years, Vil Schoenheit was entirely, utterly off-book.