Chapter 11: Practice
The walk back to the guest wing was a silent, tense procession. The night air was warm, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine and the distant, rhythmic crash of waves. It did nothing to cool the heat under Vil’s skin. Every step felt measured, a deliberate act to keep his breathing even. He could feel Leona’s presence beside him like a physical pressure, a current pulling him off his axis.
Leona unlocked the door to Vil’s room and followed him inside, closing it with a soft, definitive click. The room was spacious, elegantly appointed, moonlight streaming through the sheer curtains and painting silver lines across the floor. Vil went to the minibar, needing something to do with his hands. He pulled out a bottle of chilled water, the condensation immediately wetting his palms.
“You’re twitching again.”
Vil didn’t turn. He twisted the cap off the bottle, took a sip that did nothing to soothe his dry throat. “I am perfectly calm.”
“Right.” Leona leaned against the door, arms crossed. The lazy posture was at odds with the intensity of his gaze. “You’ve been a statue since dinner. A pretty one, but a statue. That kiss messed you up.”
The bluntness was a slap. Vil finally turned, setting the water down on a side table with a sharp tap. “It didn’t ‘mess me up.’ It was unexpected. We had no prior discussion about that level of… verisimilitude.”
Leona pushed off the door, taking a few steps into the room. He looked predatory in the low light, all shadows and coiled strength. “What was there to discuss? We’re supposed to be a couple. Couples kiss. It’s in the basic fucking job description.”
“There’s a peck on the cheek for cameras, and then there’s…” Vil waved a hand, the memory of the salt and the claiming sweep of Leona’s tongue momentarily robbing him of words. “What you did.”
“What we did,” Leona corrected, his voice a low rumble. He stopped a few feet away. “You were right there with me. Don’t rewrite history, Schoenheit.”
Vil’s jaw tightened. He couldn’t deny it. The memory of his own surrender was a humiliating, thrilling burn. “Fine. We did it. It served its purpose. Your family certainly bought it.”
“For now.” Leona ran a hand through his hair, the gesture frustrated. “But you froze like a startled deer the second we came up for air. If you react like that every time I touch you, this whole thing is going to collapse in a week. My brother’s not an idiot. He’ll see the seams.”
Vil crossed his arms, a mirror of Leona’s earlier stance, a defensive barricade. “What are you suggesting? A rehearsal schedule? Marking the moments of prescribed intimacy in the script?”
“I’m suggesting we stop treating it like a script.” Leona took another step closer. The space between them crackled. “This isn’t one of your period dramas. It’s messy. It’s physical. If we’re going to sell this, we need to… get used to it. So it doesn’t look like a fucking performance every time.”
The logic was infuriatingly sound. It was the same cold, strategic reasoning Vil respected and despised in equal measure. He was proposing a desensitization protocol. A way to sand down the raw, jagged edges of their contact until it was smooth and unconvincing.
“Get used to it,” Vil repeated flatly.
“Yeah.” Leona’s green eyes were unblinking. “You’re an actor. You practice your lines. You rehearse your blocking. This is just another part of the role. We practice so it stops feeling like a big deal. So your left eye doesn’t do that thing where it betrays your entire nervous system.”
A flush of something hot—anger, embarrassment, arousal—crept up Vil’s neck. The idea was clinical. Degrading, even. To reduce that world-altering kiss to a drill, an exercise.
But he was right.
Another dinner, another family excursion, and he might flinch. Or worse, lean in too eagerly, revealing a hunger he wasn’t ready to name. Control was slipping. This was a way to regain it, to master the variables, including the most volatile one: his own reaction to Leona Kingscholar.
Vil took a slow, centering breath. The one he used before a difficult scene. He uncrossed his arms, letting them fall to his sides, a conscious surrender to the premise. “It makes sense.”
Leona blinked, as if he’d expected more of a fight. “Yeah?”
“From a tactical standpoint, yes.” Vil’s voice was all cool professionalism now, the kind he used with directors. “The goal is authenticity. If the physical component is a weakness, it requires remediation. What exactly are you proposing?”
The shift seemed to throw Leona off balance for a second. He’d been braced for an argument, not a negotiation. “We start simple. Get the weirdness out now, when it’s just us.”
“Simple.” Vil raised a brow. “Define simple.”
Leona closed the remaining distance between them. He was close enough now that Vil could see the individual flecks of gold in his green irises, smell the clean, sun-dried cotton of his shirt and the lingering, faint scent of his skin—warm, alpha, uniquely Leona. It was dizzying.
“This,” Leona said, his voice dropping.
He lifted a hand. Vil forced himself not to recoil. Leona’s fingers, calloused and warm, brushed against Vil’s jaw, his thumb settling just below his lower lip. The touch was testing, deliberate. It wasn’t the hungry crush of the kiss in the water. This was observation. Tactical assessment.
Vil’s breath hitched despite his iron will. His skin ignited under the contact. Every nerve ending fired a frantic, desperate signal.
“See?” Leona murmured, his thumb stroking a slow, maddening arc. “You’re holding your breath. Your pupils are dilated. You look like I’m holding a knife to your throat, not touching your face.”
“I’m aware of my physiological responses,” Vil said, the words strained. He concentrated on evening out his breathing. Out. He was an instrument. This was tuning. “You’re not exactly a neutral stimulus.”
A faint, almost imperceptible smirk touched Leona’s mouth. “I’m the stimulus you signed up for. So get used to it.”
His other hand came up, mirroring the first, framing Vil’s face. His touch was firm, not gentle. It was a hold, not a caress. He tilted Vil’s head up slightly, studying him like a problem to be solved. Vil’s heart hammered against his ribs, a trapped, frantic bird. He made himself meet Leona’s gaze, pouring all his discipline into stillness.
“Better,” Leona acknowledged, though his own breathing seemed a shade quicker. His thumbs traced the elegant lines of Vil’s cheekbones. “Now stop looking at me like I’m about to devour you.”
“Aren’t you?” The retort slipped out, sharper than intended.
Leona’s eyes darkened. The clinical air in the room evaporated, replaced by something thicker, heavier. His thumbs drifted down, smoothing over the tense line of Vil’s jaw to his throat, where his pulse was a wild, betraying drum. “That’s the part we’re supposedly faking, remember?”
He said it, but the pressure of his hands, the heat in his gaze, belied the words. This was no longer just practice. The pretense was a thin veil over a live wire.
“So practice,” Vil challenged softly, his own resolve hardening into something daring. If this was the game, he would not be the only one off-balance. “What’s the next step in your curriculum?”
Leona’s grip shifted, one hand sliding to cradle the back of Vil’s head, his fingers threading into the platinum hair at his nape. The other settled on his waist, pulling him in until their bodies aligned, just as they had in the water, but now there was no buoyancy, only solid, unmovable heat.
“This,” Leona said again, his voice now a rough scrape against the quiet of the room.
He bent his head. This kiss was different. It was slow. Purposeful. A deliberate exploration. His lips were firm, patient against Vil’s, asking a question rather than demanding an answer. The shock was deeper, more insidious for its control. Vil’s eyes fluttered closed. His hands, which had been hanging stiffly at his sides, came up of their own volition, flattening against Leona’s chest. He could feel the powerful beat of his heart through the thin fabric of his shirt.
Practice, Vil thought desperately, clinging to the word as an anchor. This is rehearsal. A scene. A means to an end.
He parted his lips. Leona’s tongue swept in, not conquering, but mapping. The taste of him—mint from dinner, something darker and essential—flooded Vil’s senses. A low, helpless sound vibrated in Vil’s throat. He kissed back, matching the slow, thorough pace, his fingers curling into the material of Leona’s shirt. It was a conscious choice, an act of will, to soften into the embrace, to let his body learn the feel of Leona’s mouth, the weight of his hands.
It was working. And it was a disaster. With every passing second, the clinical distance he tried to maintain dissolved. The kiss deepened, turned less practiced and more hungry, a echo of their desperation in the sea. Leona’s hand on his waist slid lower, pressing him flush against a hardening line of heat that made Vil’s head spin.
Leona broke the kiss first, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against Vil’s. They were both breathing raggedly, the sound loud in the silent room. His hands didn’t let go.
“Your eye’s not twitching,” Leona observed, his voice thick.
“No,” Vil whispered, dazed. He was trembling, a fine, full-body shudder he couldn’t suppress.
“Good.” Leona’s tone was meant to be satisfied, final. But it wavered. He sounded as unraveled as Vil felt. He released his grip on Vil’s hair, his hand sliding down to his shoulder, as if unsure where to settle. The touch was almost hesitant.
He took a full step back, putting a foot of cooling air between them. The loss of contact was a physical ache. Vil swayed slightly, forcing his knees to lock.
“See?” Leona said, shoving his hands into his pockets, a studied casualness that didn’t reach his eyes. “Not a big deal. We can do that. It’s just part of the act.”
He was lying. Vil could see it. He could feel the same lie perched on his own tongue. That was not ‘just part of the act.’ That was a door swinging open on a room they’d both pretended was empty. It was full of shadows and light, and it terrified him.
“Right,” Vil managed, his voice barely his own. “Just part of the act.”
Leona nodded, a sharp, jerky motion. He turned and walked to the door, his usual predatory grace slightly off. He paused with his hand on the knob, not looking back. “Get some sleep. Big family breakfast. Lots of… opportunities to practice.”
Then he was gone, the door shutting with a soft, final click.
Vil stood alone in the moonlit room, his lips still tingling, the ghost of Leona’s hands imprinted on his skin. He brought his own fingers to his mouth. Practice. The word was ash.
He hadn’t gotten used to a thing. He’d only fallen deeper into the trap, and the most terrifying part was that he wasn’t sure he wanted to climb out. The performance was now the most dangerous role of his life, and he was no longer certain where the character ended and he began.
The performance was now the most dangerous role of his life, and he was no longer certain where the character ended and he began. The door clicked open again.
Leona stood there, one shoulder propped against the frame. He’d shed his shirt. The moonlight carved the plains of his chest and abdomen into sharp relief. He looked like a restless ghost returned to haunt its own mistake. “Forgot something,” he said, his voice a low gravel in the quiet.
Vil didn’t move. “Your sanity? I believe you left that on the yacht.”
A faint, humorless smirk. “Cute.” Leona pushed the door shut behind him. He didn’t approach, just watched Vil from across the room, a hunter reassessing terrain. “That wasn’t enough. We stopped when it started getting real. That’s the exact problem.”
“It felt sufficiently real to me,” Vil said, forcing ice into his tone. He gestured to the space between them. “This is a sufficient distance for a post-rehearsal note, don’t you think?”
“No.” Leona pushed off the door and walked toward him, each step deliberate. He stopped just inside Vil’s personal space, the heat of his bare skin a palpable force. “You locked up. I felt it. The second you started actually feeling it, you built a wall. A pretty one, but a wall. That’ll show. It’ll show across a breakfast table.”
“What is your proposed solution, then?” Vil snapped, irritation flaring to mask the way his blood was singing. “An overnight workshop?”
“Yeah.” Leona’s green eyes were unflinching. “We need to practice more. In the bed.”
The blunt words hung in the air, crude and shockingly specific. Vil’s breath caught. He stared, searching for mockery in Leona’s face and finding none, just a ruthless, practical intensity.
“That is a significant escalation from a kiss in the water,” Vil said carefully.
“Is it?” Leona countered. His gaze was analytical, dissecting. “You’ve kissed plenty of actors before. For scenes. For cameras. I read about that period drama, the one with the rain-soaked confession in the garden. Chapter four, five of every trashy blog about you. So this shouldn’t be a problem. It’s the same principle. Just a different location. A private rehearsal.”
The reference was a precise, cold dagger. He’d done his homework, reducing Vil’s acclaimed work to gossip-column fodder to make a point. It was meant to strip the intimacy away, to frame this as mere technique. The challenge was transparent, and it ignited a fierce, competitive pride in Vil’s chest.
He would not be the one who faltered. He would not be the amateur who couldn’t separate performance from reality, especially when Leona was throwing his own professionalism in his face.
Vil tilted his head, a slow, considering motion. He allowed a small, controlled smile to touch his lips. “When you articulate it that way, the logic is sound.” He turned and walked the few steps to the wide bed, smoothing a hand over the duvet. He looked back over his shoulder, meeting Leona’s hardened gaze. “Well? The scene isn’t going to block itself.”
For a fraction of a second, Leona looked stunned, as if he’d poked a lion and been met with a purr. Then his expression shifted into something darker, more eager. The game was accepted.
He crossed the room in three strides. This time, there was no slow approach, no testing touch. His hands landed on Vil’s hips and spun him around, pulling him flush against that bare chest. The kiss was instant and consuming, a live wire connection that burned away the last pretense of discussion. It was all teeth and shared breath, a clash of wills masked as passion.
Vil met it with equal fervor, his fingers spearing into Leona’s hair, dislodging the loose tie so tawny waves cascaded around them. He bit Leona’s lower lip, a sharp corrective, and Leona growled, the sound vibrating into Vil’s mouth. They stumbled backward, knees hitting the edge of the mattress, and fell onto the soft surface in a tangle of limbs.
The practiced grace was gone. This was a graceless, hungry scramble for leverage and contact. Leona rolled, pinning Vil beneath him, the solid weight of him an anchoring shock. Vil arched up, a silent demand, his legs bracketing Leona’s hips. The friction through their clothes was immediate and electric, a rough, desperate simulation.
“See?” Leona gasped against his throat, his hips rocking down in a slow, grinding rhythm that made Vil see stars. “Just… blocking.”
“Your blocking is… pedestrian,” Vil managed, his voice hitching as Leona found a perfect, devastating pressure. He dragged his nails down Leona’s back, earning a sharp hiss. “Needs more… motivation.”
“My motivation is making this look real,” Leona rumbled, but the words were losing cohesion. His breath was ragged in Vil’s ear, his own control fraying at the edges with every roll of his hips. The careful distance he preached was obliterated here, in the dark, on the rumpled sheets.
Vil gave up on words. He surrendered to the raw, physical grammar of it, his hips meeting each of Leona’s thrusts with building urgency. The world narrowed to the slick heat of their mouths, the drag of linen and cotton, the pounding of two heartbeats syncing into a single, frantic drum. It was a rehearsal spiraling into opening night, a performance with no audience that felt more true than any standing ovation.
Leona buried his face in the column of Vil’s neck, his movements growing less rhythmic, more urgent. A low, broken sound escaped him, one that had nothing to do with pretense. Vil’s own breathing shattered into gasps, his carefully constructed composure atomized by the building, shocking heat coiling in his gut. This wasn’t practice. This was confession.
A loud, sudden clatter of pottery and a curse sounded from the courtyard below, followed by a servant’s muffled, apologetic voice.
They froze.
The spell snapped like a overtightened wire. Leona went rigid above him, his whole body locking down. Vil lay perfectly still, the haze of sensation clearing to reveal the stark, compromising reality: clothes rumpled, skin damp with sweat, both of them achingly hard and pressed together in the center of the bed.
Leona pushed himself up on his forearms, looking down at Vil. His eyes were wide, the green almost black with an emotion that looked like panic. His breath sawed in and out of his chest. For a long, silent moment, they just stared at each other, listening to the resumed quiet from outside.
Leona rolled off him and off the bed in one fluid, retreating motion. He stood with his back to Vil, running both hands through his hair, his shoulders tense. “That,” he said, the word rough and too loud in the quiet room, “should cover it for breakfast.”
He didn’t look back. He grabbed his discarded shirt from the floor, yanked the door open, and was gone.
Vil lay amidst the wreckage of the duvet, his body thrumming with unfinished energy, his skin alive with the memory of hands and weight and heat. He pressed the heels of his palms against his closed eyes. The logic had been sound. The practice had been thorough. It had solved nothing. It had only proven, beyond any possible doubt, that every touch was a lie they were both desperately starting to believe.
It had only proven, beyond any possible doubt, that every touch was a lie they were both desperately starting to believe. Vil lay in the tangled sheets for a long time, his body humming with a frustrated, electric awareness. Sleep was a distant country.
He rose before dawn, a ghost moving through the silent villa. A cool shower did little to douse the memory of Leona’s hands. He dressed with deliberate care, choosing a simple linen shirt and trousers in a pale cream color. He studied his reflection in the mirror, the faint shadows under his eyes the only evidence of the war inside him. His face was a perfect, placid lake.
Breakfast was served on the sunny eastern terrace. The scent of fried plantains, strong coffee, and ripe fruit filled the air. Falena was already there, reading a tablet, while Leona’s mother coaxed Cheka into eating a slice of melon. Vil’s father sipped his tea, observing the garden.
Leona arrived last. He looked like he’d been dragged through a thorn bush backwards. His hair was a wilder mane than usual, his green eyes shadowed and avoiding Vil’s completely. He grunted a greeting, slouched into a chair, and reached for the coffee pot. The movement was stiff, almost pained.
“Rough night?” Falena asked without looking up.
“Fine,” Leona muttered, pouring a cup black.
Vil watched him over the rim of his own teacup. A cool, placid smile settled on his lips. He felt a dangerous calm settle over him, the same focused clarity he felt before a punishing scene. Leona had opened this door. He had framed their friction as necessary practice, a clinical tool.
FINE. IF LEONA WANTED TO PLAY THAT GAME. THEN VIL WOULD PLAY IT RIGHT BACK.
“Good morning, darling,” Vil said, his voice a warm, carrying melody. He stood, walked around the table, and before Leona could react, bent and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his cheek. He let his lips linger a second too long, inhaling the scent of soap and sleeplessness. “You look tired. Was your room uncomfortable?”
Leona went very still, the coffee cup frozen halfway to his mouth. He slowly turned his head, his gaze meeting Vil’s. A warning flashed in his eyes, bright and hot. “I slept,” he ground out.
“You must have been dreaming fiercely,” Vil continued, his hand coming to rest on Leona’s shoulder. He gave it a gentle, proprietary squeeze before returning to his seat beside him. “You were quite restless.”
Under the crisp white tablecloth, Vil let his hand rest on Leona’s denim-clad thigh. He felt the muscle there jump, tense as a coiled spring. Vil kept his eyes on Falena, engaging him in a light conversation about the day’s plans for a market visit in the village.
As he talked about artisan pottery and local spices, his hand began to move. It was a slow, innocent exploration under the cover of the linen. His fingertips traced the hard line of Leona’s quad, a deliberately casual touch. Leona was trying not to react. Vil could see the rigid set of his jaw, the white-knuckled grip on his fork.
Vil’s hand slid higher, a relentless, creeping ascent. He laughed lightly at something Falena said, his expression one of polite interest. His palm smoothed over the inner part of Leona’s thigh, a hair’s breadth from a dangerously intimate territory. Leona’s breath hitched, just a tiny catch Vil felt more than heard.
He kept talking, his voice a steady, charming stream. His fingers danced closer, until the back of his hand brushed against the firm proof of Leona’s arousal straining against his jeans. Leona jerked as if stung, his knee knocking the table leg. The silverware rattled.
“You alright, brother?” Falena asked, glancing over.
“Fine,” Leona rasped, his voice strained. He shifted in his chair, an attempt to dislodge Vil’s hand that only succeeded in pressing himself more firmly into the contact. A low, almost inaudible growl vibrated in his chest. It was pure, feral reaction.
Vil smiled sweetly, finally looking at him. He leaned in, as if to share a private joke. His lips brushed Leona’s ear. “Just practicing,” he whispered, the words a soft, venomous puff of air. “For authenticity.”
His hand closed over him, a firm, undeniable shape through the rough denim. He gave a slow, deliberate squeeze. Leona’s entire body locked down. His fork clattered loudly onto his plate. Everyone looked.
“Sorry,” Leona managed, his face a mask of rigid control. He cleared his throat. “Slipped.”
Vil withdrew his hand, placing it politely on the tabletop. He picked up a piece of toast, taking a small, neat bite. He chewed slowly, watching Leona struggle to regain his composure. The power shift was a physical current in the air between them, crackling and sweet.
Leona stared straight ahead, his nostrils flared. A faint sheen of sweat glistened at his temples. The hungry, furious look he finally shot Vil was worth every calculated risk. It held no pretense, no shield of strategic reasoning. It was pure, unadulterated want and a promise of retaliation.
Vil met his gaze and took a sip of juice, his smile serene. The game had irrevocably changed. The lie was now a shared, living thing in the space between them, and Vil had just seized its reins.