Chapter 17: Uncomfortable Truths
Leona sat down in front of him with his own stack of pancakes. He drenched them in syrup, took a huge, messy bite, and chewed thoughtfully. He watched Vil pick at his own perfect circles with a fork, the motion precise and delicate.
After swallowing, Leona wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his green eyes fixed on Vil. He asked, his voice deceptively casual around the food, “Has anyone already?”
Vil paused, his fork hovering mid-air. He was confused. “Already… already what?”
Leona stuffed another bite into his mouth. “Taken it too far.” He gestured vaguely with his fork, the silver tines catching the morning light. “At one of those events. Or on a set. I’m not an idiot, Vil. I’ve seen the kinds of allegations people in this industry have.” He said it like a statement of fact, not an accusation. “Last night wasn’t a one-off, was it?”
Vil suddenly felt a cold chill seep through the warmth of the silk robe. The sweet taste of pancake turned to ash on his tongue. He set his fork down carefully, the clink of metal on porcelain too loud in the sunny room. He looked out at the panoramic view of the city, a landscape he’d built his life atop.
He just tried normalizing it again. It was the reflex, the practiced shield. “It’s part of the landscape,” he said, his voice cool and even. “You learn to navigate it. You have your lines, your exits. Most of it is just… background noise. Innuendo. Propositions from people who think their money or influence is a universal pass.”
Leona didn’t speak. He just waited, his gaze unwavering.
Vil picked up his coffee cup, needing something to do with his hands. The ceramic was hot against his palm. “But… yes. There have been moments.” The admission was quiet, a crack in the foundation. He didn’t look at Leona. “A producer who wouldn’t take no for an answer after a wrap party. Got handsy in a car. Said it was just ‘celebrating the success.’ A photographer who thought adjusting the strap of a gown required a… intimate touch. Last year, a director implied my role in his next film was contingent on being ‘more cooperative’ after hours.” He took a sip of coffee, the bitterness a welcome anchor. “It’s usually the implication. The threat wrapped in an opportunity. The hand that stays too long, that drifts somewhere it shouldn’t.”
He said it all in a detached, almost clinical tone, as if listing minor on-set inconveniences. A broken light. A late call time. Unwanted hands. He shrugged a shoulder, the silk rustling softly. “You deal with it. You have to. Otherwise, you’re labeled difficult. A diva. And the work dries up.”
Leona had stopped eating. He just stared at him, his pancake forgotten, his expression hardening into something stark and unreadable. The casual ease from moments before was gone, replaced by a terrifying stillness. The air in the room thickened, grew heavy.
“Vil.” Leona’s voice was low, a gravelly rasp. “What the fuck.”
It wasn’t a question. It was a statement of horrified disbelief. A furnace door cracking open.
Vil finally looked at him. He saw the anger there, but it wasn’t directed at him. It was a wild, contained fury burning in Leona’s green eyes, aimed at ghosts and shadows, at men whose names he didn’t even know. It was the same protective rage from the car, but distilled, purified into something far more dangerous.
“It’s handled,” Vil said quickly, the actor’s mask slipping back into place, a flimsy defense. “I handled it. The producer, I had my agent make a discreet call to his wife, who happens to be his business manager. The photographer hasn’t worked for a major publication since. The director… I turned down the role publicly and cited scheduling conflicts. They know I won’t break. It’s fine.”
“Fine?” Leona echoed the word like it was poison. He leaned forward, his forearms on the table, his whole body coiled. “You getting groped in a fucking car is fine? Some parasite threatening your career unless you let him touch you is fine? That’s the metric now?”
“It’s the industry!” Vil shot back, a flicker of his own frustration igniting. This was why he never talked about it. The pity, the outrage, the impotent anger that changed nothing. “What do you want me to say, Leona? That it’s a fairytale? It’s a business. My body, my face, they’re part of the product. Some people think the purchase price includes a little extra.”
Leona stood up so fast his chair screeched against the floor. He paced away from the table, running a hand through his wild hair. The muscles in his back were rigid under the thin cotton of his shirt. He turned back, his eyes blazing.
“Names,” he growled.
“What?”
“The producer. The photographer. The director. Give me their names.”
A genuine, cold fear traced Vil’s spine. “Leona, no. Absolutely not. You can’t… you’re a prince. You can’t go on some… some crusade.”
“Watch me.” The words were absolute. “You think I give a single fuck about diplomatic incidents? About scandal?” He marched back to the table, planting his hands on the surface, looming over Vil. “They touched you. They threatened you. They don’t get to just… exist after that. Not while I’m breathing.”
The rawness of it was devastating. It wasn’t princely protocol or strategic alliance. It was pure, unfiltered alpha protectiveness, a bedrock instinct Vil had only ever seen weaponized for political gain. Now it was a sword unsheathed for him, and the ferocity of it stole his breath.
“Why?” The word slipped out, small and vulnerable.
Leona blinked, thrown. “What do you mean, ‘why’?”
“Why does it matter so much?” Vil pressed, standing to meet him, the table the only barrier between them. “This was the deal. A public facade. A mutual benefit. My problems aren’t yours to solve. My past… my industry bruises… they’re not part of the contract.”
Leona’s jaw worked. He looked at Vil as if he were speaking a foreign, infuriating language. “Last night,” he said, his voice tight. “When that drunk kid put his hand on you. When I saw your face. That wasn’t in any contract. My reaction wasn’t in the contract.” He gestured between them, a sharp, frustrated motion. “This, right now, me wanting to tear the throats out of men I’ve never met… that’s not in the goddamn contract, Vil.”
The silence that followed was deafening. The city hummed outside, oblivious.
Vil’s heart hammered against his ribs. The carefully constructed wall between performance and reality didn’t just have a crack anymore. It was crumbling, dust sifting down around them in the quiet dining room.
Leona exhaled, a long, slow breath that seemed to drain some of the violent tension from his shoulders. He looked down at the abandoned pancakes, now cold and congealing on their plates. The domestic scene had curdled.
“I need air,” he muttered, more to himself than to Vil. He didn’t move towards the door. Instead, he walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, staring out at the sprawling city with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. His broad back was a landscape of conflict.
Vil watched him. He saw the rigid line of his shoulders, the way his head was bowed slightly. He saw not a prince enacting a duty, but a man grappling with a feeling too big to name. A feeling that mirrored the terrifying, expanding thing in Vil’s own chest.
He walked over to stand beside him, not touching, just sharing the same view of the endless skyline. “You can’t fix it,” Vil said softly, the fight gone from his voice. “Not like that. You’d just make it a different kind of mess. A louder one.”
Leona was silent for a long moment. “So what?” he finally said, the words rough with suppressed emotion. “I just sit here? Eat pancakes? While you…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.
“You listen,” Vil said simply. He chanced a glance at Leona’s profile, etched in sharp relief against the glass. “You… you already did more than anyone else has. You saw it. You got angry for me. Not at me. For me.” He let out a shaky breath. “That’s… it’s enough.”
Leona turned his head, his green eyes searching Vil’s face. The horror was still there, but it had softened into something pained and fiercely tender. “It’s not enough,” he replied, but the fight had left his voice. It was just a bleak statement of fact.
He reached out then, not with aggression, but with a hesitant gravity. His hand, warm and rough, cupped Vil’s cheek, his thumb stroking just beneath his eye. It was the same gesture as the kiss on the temple—unscripted, devastatingly gentle. A touch that asked for nothing, that offered everything.
Vil leaned into it, closing his eyes. He felt the last of his defenses dissolve under that simple warmth. The chill from earlier was gone, burned away by the heat of Leona’s palm.
The chill from earlier was gone, burned away by the heat of Leona’s palm. That gentle touch on his cheek fractured something vital inside Vil. A sharp, almost painful gasp escaped him. He opened his eyes and saw Leona’s expression—the fury had melted, replaced by a helpless, hungry need that mirrored his own.
All the calculated words, the polished deflections, the entire architecture of control he’d spent a lifetime building, collapsed into dust between one heartbeat and the next.
Leona’s other hand came up, cradling his face. He searched Vil’s eyes, his own wide and startlingly unguarded. “Tell me no,” he whispered, his voice raw. “Right now, Vil. Or I swear I won’t stop.”
Vil couldn’t speak. He shook his head, a tiny, frantic motion. Not no. Never no.
A low sound rumbled in Leona’s chest. In one fluid, powerful motion, he bent and hoisted Vil into his arms. Vil’s gasp was swallowed by the sudden shift, the world tilting as Leona held him easily against his chest. The burgundy silk robe fell open, baring his legs.
“Leona—” Vil managed, his arms instinctively looping around his neck.
“I’ve got you.” Leona’s voice was firm, certain. He carried him out of the dining room, past the kitchen with its cooling pancakes, down the hall. He shouldered open the door to Vil’s bedroom, a sanctuary of soft grays and whites now invaded by his towering, wild presence.
He laid Vil down on the silk duvet with a care that belied his strength. He followed him down, bracing himself over him, a wall of heat and tension. The morning light painted gold stripes across Leona’s back, over the fierce concentration on his face.
He looked down at Vil, his green eyes dark. “Let me,” he said, the words rough but impossibly soft. “Let me make you feel good. Let me make you forget all of it. Even for five minutes.” His thumb traced Vil’s lower lip. “Can I?”
Vil’s breath hitched. He could feel the hard line of Leona’s body, the promise in his touch. It wasn’t about conquest. It was an offering, a fierce, raw act of reclamation. A breath shuddered out of him, carrying the last of his resistance.
“Yes,” Vil breathed out, the word desperate and sure. His hands fisted in the sheets. “Oh god, yes.”
Leona’s answering expression was pure, focused heat. He kissed him then, deep and consuming, a prelude that left them both trembling. Then he began to move down, his mouth trailing a blazing path over Vil’s jaw, his throat, the hollow of his collarbones.
He pushed the silk robe completely open. His hands, those capable, rough hands, were unbearably gentle as they slid up Vil’s thighs. He settled between them, his gaze holding Vil’s for a charged, endless second before he lowered his head.
The first touch of his tongue was electric. Vil cried out, back arching off the bed. Leona didn’t rush. He explored with a devoted, meticulous hunger that felt like worship. He licked and suckled, learning the sensitive terrain with a patience that bordered on agony.
He found the aching center of him and sucked, pulling gently, then firmly. Vil’s world narrowed to that point of slick, rhythmic pressure. Every clever thought, every memory of grabbing hands and leering smiles, was incinerated in the wildfire of this sensation.
Leona’s tongue pressed inside him, and Vil shattered. A broken sob tore from his throat. His hands flew to Leona’s hair, tangling in the tawny waves, not to guide but to anchor himself as the waves of pleasure crested and broke over him. He was coming undone, completely, gloriously unmade.
Leona gentled him through it, his touch softening to slow, lapping caresses until Vil’s trembling subsided into shallow, hitched breaths. Only then did he rise back up, gathering Vil into his arms, holding him tight against his still-clothed body. He pressed his face into Vil’s hair, his own breathing harsh and uneven.
He pressed his face into Vil’s hair, his own breathing harsh and uneven. Vil’s whole body thrummed, a live wire grounded only by the weight of Leona against him. The room smelled of sex and sweat and the faint, lingering sweetness of syrup.
Leona didn’t let go. His arms tightened, a vice of muscle and heat. Vil could feel the rapid hammer of Leona’s heart through his shirt, a frantic counter-rhythm to his own slowing pulse. He didn’t trust his voice. He just clutched the fabric of Leona’s tee, his fingers trembling.
After a long minute, Leona shifted. He didn’t pull away. He just slid down beside him, rolling onto his back and dragging Vil with him until Vil’s head rested on his chest. The silence was a thick, new thing. Not empty. Charged.
Vil listened to the steadying heartbeat under his ear. His skin felt oversensitive, glowing. The memory of Leona’s mouth on him, the devastating focus, replayed behind his eyelids. It wasn’t performative. It wasn’t strategic. It was an annihilation.
“You okay?” Leona’s voice was a rasp above him. His hand came up, fingers carding slowly through Vil’s disheveled platinum hair.
A weak laugh bubbled out of Vil. It sounded suspiciously like a sob. “Define okay.” He nuzzled closer, inhaling the scent of Leona’s skin—sun-warmed rock and something uniquely wild. “I think you short-circuited my brain.”
Leona’s chest moved with a silent chuckle. “Good.”
They lay there as the morning sun climbed, painting brighter squares on the floor. The real world, with its contracts and cameras and calculating hands, waited outside the door. Vil didn’t want to let it in.
“That wasn’t part of the deal,” Vil murmured into his chest.
Leona’s hand stilled in his hair. “I know.”
“You’re a terrible negotiator.” Vil tilted his head up to look at him. Leona’s gaze was fixed on the ceiling, his jaw tight. “Giving away services for free.”
That got his attention. Leona looked down, his green eyes sharp. “It wasn’t a service.” The words were flat, absolute. “And it wasn’t free. You… letting me do that.” He swallowed, the column of his throat working. “That was the payment.”
The raw honesty of it stole Vil’s breath. He pushed himself up on one elbow, looking down at Leona’s face. The cynical glint was gone. In its place was a weary, open vulnerability that was more disarming than any kiss.
“Why?” Vil asked again, echoing his own question from the kitchen. He needed to hear the shape of the reason. He needed to know what ground he was standing on, even if it was quicksand.
Leona exhaled, a long, slow release. He brought a hand up to trace the line of Vil’s eyebrow, a feather-light touch. “When you told me about those men,” he started, his voice low. “It felt like someone lit a fuse in my blood. I wanted to burn down buildings. I wanted to find them.” His thumb brushed Vil’s cheekbone. “But then I looked at you. Right here, in my arms. And I just… I wanted to do that more. I needed to wipe it all away. Every fucking hand. Every threat. I needed you to feel something else. Something good. Something only from me.”
Something only from me.”
The words hung in the sunlit room, raw and unvarnished. Vil felt them sink into his skin, a warmth spreading from his core that had nothing to do with the light pooling on the sheets. It was a different heat, one that thawed the last icy shard of fear the morning’s confession had left behind.
He looked at Leona’s face, the stark honesty there. It was more intimate than anything they’d just done. For a wild second, Vil wanted to match it. To say something equally true and terrifying.
He didn’t.
Instead, a slow, genuine smile touched his lips. He let his head fall back onto Leona’s chest, listening to the strong, steady heartbeat. The warmth from the answer settled in his bones, comforting and terrifying all at once.
“Careful, Your Highness,” Vil murmured, his voice deliberately light. He traced a meaningless pattern on Leona’s shirt. “You’re taking this fake boyfriend role alarmingly seriously. Method acting, is it? I’m impressed. A little concerned, but impressed.”
Leona’s body stiffened for a fraction of a second beneath him. Then a deep, rough chuckle vibrated through his chest. The tension bled out of the air, replaced by something easier, a familiar cynicism snapping back into place like a shield.
“Shut up,” Leona grumbled, but his arm tightened around Vil’s shoulders. “Just calling it like I see it. You had a shitty morning. I fixed it.” He said it like he’d unclogged a drain. A practical solution to a messy problem.
“Mm. With your mouth. Very practical.” Vil’s tease was effortless, a return to the playful surface they both knew how to navigate. “Not the usual princely diplomacy, but effective. I’ll note it in my review.”
“You do that.” Leona’s hand resumed its slow journey through Vil’s hair, the gesture at odds with his dismissive tone. “Five stars. Would recommend to a friend.”
They lapsed into a comfortable silence. The city’ noise was a distant murmur. Vil focused on the rise and fall of Leona’s breathing, the solid reality of him. He could still feel the ghost of his mouth, a branded memory that made his skin prickle.
He knew what this was. A transaction of comfort, a physical reset. It had to be. Leona’s fury earlier was alpha instinct, protective and possessive in a base, biological way. His… attentiveness just now was a continuation of that. A claiming. It wasn’t personal.
It wasn’t personal, but his hands had been so gentle.
“The pancakes are definitely cold,” Vil said, breaking the quiet.
“They were probably mediocre anyway.” Leona shifted, turning onto his side to face him. The morning light caught the gold in his green eyes. “I have a council sub-committee meeting at one. It’s about irrigation tariffs. It’s going to be insufferable.”
The mundane statement was an anchor. It was real life, with its boring duties, reasserting itself. The bubble of the bedroom popped with a nearly audible sigh.
“And I have a fitting for the Vagram campaign at three,” Vil replied, falling into the rhythm. “Sparkles and leather, allegedly. My manager will already be blowing up my phone, wondering why I’m not answering.”
As if summoned, a faint, persistent buzz echoed from the direction of the dining room. Vil’s phone, buried in the pocket of his discarded robe.
Neither of them moved.
Leona reached out and tucked a strand of platinum hair behind Vil’s ear. His fingers lingered on the sensitive skin there. “Tell them you’re busy. Being thoroughly fake-dated.”
Vil laughed, a real one that shook his shoulders. “Thoroughly is the operative word.” He caught Leona’s wrist, not pushing it away, just holding it. “You should go. Your kingdom’s aqueducts await.”
“They can wait a few more minutes.” Leona leaned in and kissed him. It was slow, deep, and tasted like shared breath and fading syrup. It felt like a period at the end of a sentence they weren’t reading aloud.
When he pulled back, his expression was its usual mask of lazy arrogance. But his eyes stayed soft, just for a second. “Call me,” he said, sitting up. “If anyone gives you trouble. I don’t care if it’s a stylist with cold hands or a director with a bad script.”
He swung his legs off the bed, stretching, the muscles in his back pulling taut. He found his discarded shoes, pulling them on without socks. He looked feral and out of place in the pristine room, a lion who’d wandered into a jewelry box.
Vil sat up, pulling the silk sheet around himself. He watched Leona become Prince Leona again, the mantle of casual insolence settling on his shoulders. The man who’d whispered “something only from me” was receding, packed away.
“I’ll manage,” Vil said, the actor’s composure sliding back into place. “But I’ll keep the threat in my back pocket. It has a certain brutish charm.”
Leona shot him a glare that was all fake annoyance. “Brutish. You’re welcome.” He walked to the bedroom door, pausing in the frame. He didn’t look back. “Eat something that isn’t cold pancakes.”
And then he was gone. Vil heard the faint sound of the front door closing.
The silence in the penthouse was absolute. The space felt different, charged and empty all at once. Vil fell back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling. His body hummed, satiated. His mind was a riot.
He replayed the morning in fragments. The chilling confession at the table. The explosive, helpless fury on Leona’s face. The way that fury had transmuted, molten and devastating, into something else entirely on his skin.
Just physical, he told himself, dragging a hand down his face. A intense, distracting, overwhelmingly good physical reaction to stress and shared vulnerability. A transaction. Leona had needed to fix something; Vil had needed to forget. A mutually beneficial arrangement.
His phone buzzed again, insistently, from the other room. The real world was hammering at the door.
Vil felt warm. Despite everything, he felt warm all over. He buried his smile in the pillow that smelled like Leona’s shampoo and wild, sun-baked earth.
He was definitely taking this role too seriously.