Chapter 8: Only one Bed
The call came on a Thursday afternoon. Vil was mid-way through a facial mist application, his phone propped against the mirror, when Leona’s name flashed on the screen.
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” was Leona’s greeting, his voice a dry rasp of resignation. “My brother. And my mother. And, for some ungodly reason, my nephew. They’ve collectively decided it’s been ‘too long.’ They’re expecting us. This weekend.”
Vil lowered the mist bottle, meeting his own reflected violet eyes. Two months. It had been close to two months since the arrangement began, since the conservatory and the shattered ceasefire and the painful, necessary reconciliation with their friends. A fragile, functional rhythm had been established. This was part of the function.
“The Savanna in summer,” Vil stated, already mentally reviewing his packing list for a climate that felt like a physical assault. “How delightful.”
“I’ll hold your bags,” Leona said, the offer sounding more like a threat.
“You’d better.”
The Sunset Savanna at peak heat was a relentless, golden oven. The air shimmered above the tarmac as they disembarked from the private royal shuttle, thick with the scent of dry grass, warm earth, and distant, musky animal notes. Leona, true to his word, slung Vil’s meticulously packed leather weekender over his shoulder without comment. He’d ditched his usual city attire for loose, light linen pants and a thin, open shirt, his tawny skin absorbing the sun. He looked irritatingly at ease, a creature returned to its element.
Vil, in a breathable ivory linen suit, felt the first trickle of sweat trace his spine.
The main family lodge was a sprawling, beautiful structure of sandstone and dark wood, airy and open to catch the breezes that seldom came. Falena greeted them at the entrance, his smile broad and genuinely warm, a slightly older, more polished version of Leona without the cynical glint. Leona’s mother, Queen Saaed, was more reserved, her eyes keen and assessing as she took Vil in. Cheka, a ball of boundless energy, immediately latched onto Vil’s leg with a cry of “Sparkly Uncle!” before being gently extracted by a nanny.
It was all gracious, until Falena led them down a familiar, high-ceilinged hallway.
“We’ve put you in Leona’s old rooms, of course,” Falena said, pushing open a heavy wooden door. “Much more private than the guest wing.”
The room was larger than Vil expected, dominated by a massive, carved dark wood bed heaped with cushions and soft-looking textiles in earthy tones. Shelves held old school trophies, fossilized bones, and a disarray of books. The view through the arched window was of the endless, rolling grasslands. It was unequivocally, undeniably Leona’s space. And there was only one bed.
Leona stopped dead in the doorway, the weekender thumping against his thigh. “What?”
Falena turned, blinking. “Is something wrong?”
“You put us in one room.” It wasn’t a question.
“Well… yes?” Falena’s confusion was plain. He looked from his brother’s stormy face to Vil’s carefully neutral one. “You’re a couple. Have you not yet shared a bed?” The question hung in the air, simple, logical, and utterly devastating.
Leona’s jaw worked. Vil could see the tension cord the muscles in his neck. This was the unscripted landmine, the obvious, intimate reality of a relationship they had never bothered to fabricate because it had seemed too far beyond the scope of their contract. Leona was frozen, caught between the truth of their transaction and the expectation of his family’s truth.
Vil stepped into the silence, a smooth, practiced smile gracing his lips. He slid his hand onto Leona’s rigid arm, feeling the heat of his skin through the linen. “Falena, please,” he said, his voice a light, affectionate chide. “He’s just embarrassed. We’re in his childhood home, with his family right down the hall. He’s being strangely traditional.” He squeezed Leona’s arm, a silent command to play along. “It’s not a problem at all.”
Leona’s green eyes cut to him, a flash of wildfire. He inhaled sharply, then let it out in a forced, gruff exhale. “Yeah. That. It’s fine.”
Falena’s face cleared, amusement replacing confusion. “Ah! I see. Well, we’ll leave you to unwind. Dinner is in two hours.” He clasped Leona’s shoulder, gave Vil another warm smile, and left, closing the door behind him.
The moment the latch clicked, Leona shook off Vil’s hand. “Embarrassed? Traditional?”
“Would you have preferred I told them we maintain chaste, separate sleeping quarters for the purity of our strategic alliance?” Vil shot back, already unbuttoning his linen jacket. The room was cooler than outside, but the residual heat clung. “He gave us an out. I took it. Now we have a problem to solve.”
“The problem is my family has no sense of boundaries,” Leona growled, dropping Vil’s bag onto a low bench with a thud.
“The problem,” Vil corrected, pulling his shirt over his head, “is a king-size bed. I’ll take the left. You don’t snore, do you?”
Leona stared at him, momentarily derailed by the casual disrobing. Vil, ignoring him, opened his weekender with efficient movements. He changed with his back turned, a quick, utilitarian swap of travel clothes for something comfortable to endure the wait until dinner. When he turned around, Leona’s breath caught in a way that had nothing to do with annoyance.
Vil stood in a simple, heather-grey tank top and a pair of tight, black booty shorts. His platinum hair was twisted up into a messy, practical bun, a few wisps escaping to frame his face. His makeup was minimal, just enough to define his eyes and brows, a soft sheen on his lips. It was a version of Vil he had never seen—stripped of the armor of high fashion, the dramatic contours of stage makeup, the calculated perfection of his public image. This was off-duty, soft-focus reality. The lines of his legs were long and defined, the shorts riding high. The tank top clung to the lean muscle of his shoulders and back. He looked comfortable, real, and unbearably attractive.
Leona’s brain short-circuited. This was worse than any scripted kiss, any staged photo op. This was Vil, in his space, in his bedroom, looking like that. The casual intimacy of it was a physical shock.
“What?” Vil asked, catching his stare. He crossed his arms, a defensive gesture that did interesting things to his biceps.
“Nothing.” Leona turned away abruptly, busying himself with nothing at all by the bookshelf. “Just… make yourself at home, I guess.”
The two hours stretched like tar. Vil inspected the shelves, making quiet, perceptive comments about Leona’s eclectic reading choices. He opened the window wider to let in the dusty, sunset air. He lay on his designated side of the bed, scrolling on his phone, his bare legs a pale, distracting slash against the dark bedding.
Leona pretended to read. He didn’t absorb a single word. His senses were hyper-focused on the other presence in the room—the faint, clean scent of Vil’s shampoo over the familiar smells of his own past, the rustle of fabric, the soft sound of his breathing. The peace treaty from their friends’ intervention felt paper-thin here, tested by the sheer, overwhelming physicality of the situation.
“You’re thinking too loudly,” Vil said, not looking up from his phone.
“I’m not thinking anything.”
“You’ve been on the same page for twenty minutes.”
Leona snapped the book shut. The silence that followed was thick, charged with all the unspoken things the bed in the center of the room represented. It wasn’t just about sharing space. It was about the performance bleeding into a domain that was supposed to be sacredly, privately real. Leona’s room had always been a refuge from performance. Now Vil was here, a beautiful, complicating fact, and the part that unnerved Leona most was the lack of performance. The booty shorts weren’t a costume. The messy bun wasn’t a style choice. This was just Vil, existing, and Leona had no defensive protocol for it.
Finally, a soft knock signaled dinner. Vil swung his legs off the bed, his feet touching the cool stone floor. He stood, stretched, the hem of his tank top riding up to reveal a sliver of toned, pale stomach. Leona looked away, a hot, foreign feeling coiling low in his gut.
“Showtime,” Vil said, his voice back to its polished, prepared cadence. But as he passed Leona to head for the door, he paused. He looked up, meeting Leona’s gaze directly. In the dying orange light from the window, his violet eyes were unguarded, searching. “For what it’s worth,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, “the bed is the least of my concerns.”
He left the room, leaving Leona standing alone amidst the artifacts of his youth, the ghost of Vil’s scent in the air, and the dawning, unsettling realization that the lines weren’t just blurred anymore.
They were gone.
They were gone. The lines, the carefully negotiated boundaries of their transaction, had dissolved in the amber light of his childhood bedroom. Leona stood there for another minute, listening to the distant sound of Vil’s heels on the stone floor fading down the hall. He ran a hand through his wild hair, the gesture agitated, before he followed.
The dining hall was a grand, open space where one wall gave way to a vast arch overlooking the savanna now painted in deep purples and oranges by the dying sun. Large, slow-moving ceiling fans churned the heavy air. Falena was already at the head of the table, King now in their late parents’ stead, his wife Lilia smiling beside him. Cheka was bouncing in a cushioned chair.
Vil was pouring a glass of iced water from a pitcher. Leona’s breath hitched, just for a second, as he took him in. The soft, booty-shorts-and-tank-top intimacy was gone, replaced by a public-facing elegance that was somehow more devastating.
Vil wore a flowy, cobalt-blue short jumpsuit made of some light, shimmering material that moved like water. It was cut high on the thigh, showcasing his long legs, and paired with delicate, strappy wedge heels that gave his posture a graceful, confident line. His platinum hair was swept up into a sleek, high ponytail, a few artful strands left to frame his sharp jaw. His makeup was light but impeccable, enhancing his violet eyes and the cut of his cheekbones. He looked cool, literally and figuratively, a masterpiece of composed beauty.
Leona had changed into simple, dark linen pants and a white, open-collared shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. In a concession to the humidity, he’d pulled his own tawny hair back into a low, messy ponytail. The style felt strangely exposing without his usual wild mane as a shield.
“You look comfortable,” Vil said, his voice carrying a note of genuine envy as he sat, taking a long sip of water. A bead of sweat traced a path down his temple, betraying his struggle with the climate.
“Used to it,” Leona grunted, sliding into the chair beside him. He wasn’t. Not like this. The heat he was fighting was internal, a slow, persistent simmer that had begun the moment Vil had stretched out on his bed. Seeing Vil now, polished and glowing under the soft lantern light, only turned the dial higher. The jumpsuit’s deep V-neck dipped just enough to be tantalizing. The fan’s breeze caught the loose fabric, hinting at the slender form beneath.
Dinner was a sprawling affair of spiced meats, flatbreads, and vibrant salads. Falena and Lilia were effortlessly kind, asking Vil about his current projects with a sincerity that lacked the usual media calculation. Cheka demanded to know if Uncle Leona had ever beaten Vil in a race.
“In his dreams,” Vil replied smoothly, feeding the boy a piece of mango. Leona just snorted, his leg brushing accidentally against Vil’s under the table. He didn’t pull away. Neither did Vil.
The conversation flowed easily, aided by the good wine. It felt dangerously authentic, this picture of a family meal. Leona watched Vil charm his brother, laugh at a story from Lilia, and patiently answer Cheka’s endless questions. It wasn’t the flawless, practiced performance of a gala. This was warmer, softer at the edges. It was the version of Vil that had teased Epel about his posture, that had debated tactical magic with Rook. It was real, and Leona’s chest ached with a foreign, tight longing.
“So,” Falena said, leaning back with a contented smile as dessert was served. “We’ve been planning a little trip. A family getaway to the Coral Sea Shore next week. The water villas are booked, the schedule is clear.” He gestured expansively with his glass. “We think you both should come. A proper vacation. Vil, your father is most welcome, of course. We’d love to meet Eric.”
The air in the room solidified. Leona’s fork clinked softly against his plate.
“Oh,” Vil said, his smile staying perfectly in place, though his eyes flickered to Leona. “That’s incredibly generous. But my schedule—”
“Is a nightmare, I’m sure,” Lilia finished with a sympathetic wave. “But everyone needs to breathe, dear. Even stars. It’s only five days.”
“And my responsibilities here—” Leona started, his voice tight.
“—can be handled by the council for five days, little brother,” Falena interrupted, his tone brooking no argument. It was the King’s voice, not the brother’s. “You’ve been working non-stop. This is important. Family time.”
The pressure was a tangible force. It was the same pressure that had initiated this entire farce, now manifesting as a sun-drenched, oceanic trap. To refuse would seem suspicious, ungrateful, and out of character for a supposedly smitten partner. Leona felt the walls of the contract close in, shrinking from gilded cage to this specific, inescapable villa.
“I really couldn’t impose,” Vil tried again, the perfect guest.
“Nonsense!” Falena boomed. “We insist. Truly. It would make us so happy. And Cheka would be devastated.” The small boy, sensing the cue, unleashed his most potent weapon: wide, sparkling eyes aimed directly at Vil.
Vil looked at Leona, a silent scream passing between them. They were cornered. Beautifully, kindly, family-style cornered.
“Let me just… call my father,” Vil said, his voice a study in graceful capitulation. “To see if he’s even available.” He excused himself, walking out onto the adjacent terrace for privacy.
Leona stared at his brother. “You planned this.”
“Of course I did,” Falena said, his smile gentle but unwavering. “You’ve found someone remarkable. We want to know him. This is how families do that.” There was a subtle weight behind the words, a kingly expectation Leona knew all too well. This was an integration test.
On the terrace, they could see Vil on his phone, one hand gesturing vaguely as he spoke. After a minute, he lowered the phone, stared out at the darkening plains, and took a deep, visible breath. He came back inside.
“Well,” Vil said, reclaiming his seat with an actress’s poise. “He’s thrilled. He’s clearing his calendar. He says he can’t wait.” He reached for his water glass, his fingers cool and steady against the condensation. He didn’t look at Leona. “It seems we’re going to the shore.”
The rest of the dinner passed in a blur for Leona. The conversation continued, plans were loosely discussed, but it was just noise. The simmer in his blood had cooled into a hard, heavy lump of frustration in his gut. A weekend in his room was one thing. Five days and four nights in a shared water villa, with his entire family and Vil’s enthusiastically oblivious father as an audience, was a catastrophic escalation.
Later, back in the singular bedroom, the silence was different. The earlier tension had mutated into a shared, weary comprehension of the deepened pit they were in. Vil carefully removed his beautiful wedge heels, placing them side by side near his suitcase.
“The Coral Sea,” Vil murmured, unclipping the ponytail holder and letting his hair fall in a platinum cascade. “I suppose I’ll need a new swimsuit.”
Leona stood by the window, watching the constellations emerge over the land he called home. He felt inconvenienced, profoundly and irrationally. It wasn’t just the disruption to his solitude, or the relentless performance ahead. It was the terrifying, unwelcome spark of anticipation that lived beneath the irritation—the part of him that wanted to see Vil in swimwear, that wondered how Eric Schoenheit would fit into this chaotic equation, that imagined five days of sun and Vil’s real, unscripted laughter.
“This is a disaster,” Leona stated, his back to Vil.
“I know,” Vil’s reply was quiet, matter-of-fact. There was a rustle of fabric. Leona heard the soft sound of the jumpsuit being laid over a chair. “But my father sounded genuinely excited. He doesn’t get to do things like this.”
There was a vulnerability in that admission, a glimpse of the dutiful son beneath the superstar. Leona finally turned around. Vil was already in bed, lying on his left side under the thin sheet, facing the wall. The line of his shoulder was bare.
Leona turned off the light and got in on his own side. The bed was massive, but the space between them felt charged and miniature. He could hear Vil’s breathing, could smell the unique cocktail of his skincare and the lingering, sun-warmed scent of his skin.
“Your brother loves you,” Vil said into the darkness, his voice barely audible. “This is his version of a peace offering. A welcome.”
“It’s an interrogation masquerading as a beach holiday.”
A soft, tired laugh escaped Vil. “Probably. But the location is preferable to a council chamber.” He shifted, the sheets whispering. “Goodnight, Leona.”
Leona stared at the shadowed ceiling, the unfamiliar weight of a low ponytail pressing against the pillow. The heat of the day had finally surrendered to the cool night air, but he was wide awake, burning up from the inside. The contract was now a vacation package. The performance required swimwear and family dinners. And the inconvenient, undeniable truth was that he no longer dreaded the act itself, but the moment, five days from now, when it would all have to end.
The weight of that truth was a stone on his chest. It made the expansive bed feel as narrow as a ledge. He focused on the familiar sounds of the savanna night—the distant cry of a prowling creature, the whisper of dry grass in a faint breeze. Anything to ignore the heat radiating from the other side of the mattress. He finally stripped off his shirt, the linen damp with sweat, and tossed it toward the foot of the bed. The cool air on his skin was a relief.
He lay flat on his back, eyes open in the dark, determined to hold his ground. Vil was a still, quiet outline turned away from him, a respectful distance maintained. The last thing Leona remembered was counting the slow rotations of the ceiling fan's shadows.
Somewhere in the deep, claimless hours of the night, the calculus of sleep overrode conscious arrangement. The cool night air of the savanna had a bite to it, a dry chill that seeped in through the stone walls. Seeking warmth, bodies moved on instinct, not negotiation.
Leona woke to a foreign sense of weight and warmth against him. His brain, still gummed with sleep, processed the data slowly. A softness was tucked against his chest. A scent of iris and clean sweat filled his nostrils. A line of warmth was pressed along the entire length of his back. His arm was not his own; it was wrapped around a slender waist, his hand splayed possessively over a firm, flat stomach.
He was holding Vil. And Vil was curled into him, his back a seamless curve against Leona’s front. The omega’s breathing was deep and even, his head a perfect fit beneath Leona’s chin. Every point of contact was electric, a live wire of awareness shooting through the haze of sleep. He didn’t move. He didn’t dare.
Then Vil shifted. A sleepy, unconscious nuzzle against Leona’s collarbone. Then a gradual stiffening, the breath catching. Vil was waking up. Leona held perfectly still, feigning sleep, even as his heart began a slow, heavy thump against his ribs. He felt the exact moment Vil realized their position.
Vil turned, slowly, within the circle of Leona’s arm. Now they were face-to-face, inches apart in the weak, predawn light seeping through the window. Vil’s violet eyes were wide, sleep-softened but filling with a startled, luminous clarity. His gaze drifted down, and Leona saw his throat move in a swallow.
Leona was shirtless. The sheet had pooled around their hips. The first pale grey light traced the defined ridges of his pectorals, the hard planes of his stomach, the deep line of his obliques. It was an unstudied, casual display of raw strength Vil had only ever seen through layers of tailored fabric.
Vil’s fingers twitched against Leona’s side where his hand had come to rest. A look of pure, unguarded want flashed across his face—quick, hungry, and devastatingly real. It was the look he gave a perfect script, a flawless diamond, a sunset that matched his exact aesthetic specifications. But it was directed at Leona’s skin.
He gave in. His fingertips, light and uncertain, brushed downwards. They traced the hard line of Leona’s pec, followed the pronounced ridge of his abdominal muscle, a hesitant map of terrain. The touch was feather-light, more a question than a statement.
A low, drowsy hum vibrated in Leona’s chest. He hadn’t meant to make a sound. His eyes, heavy-lidded and green as bottle glass in the dim light, slid open. He found Vil staring, fingers still on his skin, caught.
Vil snatched his hand back as if burned, a fierce, beautiful blush erupting from his neck to the tips of his ears. He tried to scramble back, but Leona’s arm, still around him, was an unyielding bar.
“Easy,” Leona murmured, his voice a sleep-roughened rasp. He didn’t release him. Instead, he shifted, propping his head up on his elbow. The movement made the muscles in his arm and shoulder flex. A lazy, knowing smirk touched his lips. “Something on your mind, princess?”
The defensiveness slammed into Vil like a shield. The vulnerability vanished, replaced by razor-edged affront. “Your room is freezing,” he snapped, his own voice betraying him with a slight crack. “Your body heat is biologically significant. It was a reflexive, survival-oriented action.”
“Uh-huh.” Leona’s smirk deepened. He let his gaze roam slowly, deliberately, over Vil’s face, his flushed throat, the thin tank top. “Survival. Looked more like exploration to me.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Vil hissed, finally wrenching himself free and sitting up. The sheet fell to his waist. His ponytail was a wreck, strands of platinum silk sticking to his neck and cheeks. He looked thoroughly kissed by sleep and annoyance. “I was half-asleep. And if we’re cataloging trespasses, your insistence on sleeping like a barbarian without a shirt is a far greater offense to propriety.”
“My room, my rules.” Leona didn’t move from his reclined position, thoroughly enjoying the view of Vil in disarray. “You’re the one who went mapping.”
“I was ascertaining the source of the overheating!” Vil climbed out of bed, his shorts riding up, and stalked to the window, presenting his back. The dawn light outlined him through the thin fabric of his tank top. “It’s like sleeping next to a furnace. A smug, sculpted furnace. No wonder you’re so cranky all the time; you’re probably constantly dehydrated from the internal combustion.”
Leona laughed, a single, surprised puff of air. He sat up, the sheet falling to his lap. “Cranky? You’re the one who leapt out of bed like it was full of scorpions because you got caught with your hand in the cookie jar.”
Vil whirled around, his eyes blazing. “There is no cookie jar! There is just you, being intentionally… solid! It’s distracting!”
“Solid,” Leona repeated, the word a low purr. He finally swung his legs out of bed, standing in a fluid, powerful motion. He stretched, arms overhead, back arching, putting every inch of that ‘solid’ anatomy on blatant display. He saw Vil’s eyes track the movement before darting away. “You’re gonna need a better excuse for the Coral Sea. My brother’s not gonna buy ‘biological significance’ when you’re jumping three feet because I accidentally brush your hand.”
“I don’t jump,” Vil said primly, gathering his toiletries bag with sharp, precise movements. “I execute a strategic, graceful retreat. And I’ll have you know, my performance will be impeccable. It’s you I’m worried about. You can’t even share a bed without causing a thermal event.”
“Keep telling yourself that,” Leona said, padding toward the connected bathroom. He paused at the door, looking back over his shoulder. Vil was glaring at him, the blush still high on his cheekbones, his hair a glorious mess. He looked infuriated. And alive. And stunning. “Just remember which one of us started the hands-on research this morning.”
He closed the bathroom door on Vil’s sound of wordless outrage. Leona leaned against the sink, staring at his own reflection—the smug expression already fading, replaced by a raw, unsettled intensity. His skin still tingled where Vil’s fingers had been. The phantom weight of Vil against his chest felt more real than the cool porcelain under his hands.
He had teased to deflect, to reclaim some control over the sudden, intimate freefall. But the joke was on him. Vil’s touch, hesitant and real, had seared through every one of his defenses like they were tissue paper. The contract was ashes. The performance was a lie. All that was left was this terrifying, electric attraction and the five-day trap of a family vacation, where pretending felt impossible and admitting the truth felt like stepping off a cliff.