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The presidential suite of the most exclusive hotel on one of the islands of the Queendom of Roses had temporarily become the command center of an almost military operation. Or at least, that’s how it felt to the poor wedding planner, an internationally renowned man who, at that moment, was sweating cold while holding lavender silk fabric samples under the natural light of the window.
However, for the two men sitting on the velvet sofa in front of him, the atmosphere was not one of war, but of a symphony reaching its crescendo.
"The shade is correct. It was a great decision to switch from floral lavender to bluish lavender," Vil said, crossing his legs with that innate elegance that made even breathing seem like an art form. "But the texture concerns me. If the lighting in the garden changes at six in the evening, that silk will reflect too much light. We want the glow to be ethereal, not blinding. Remember: privacy and elegance over empty spectacle."
Rook, sitting beside him, watched the scene with a smile that didn't fit on his face. His gaze was not on the fabrics, nor on the architectural plans of the walled venue they had rented to ensure the total absence of paparazzi. His green eyes were fixed on Vil.
"Maître de la mode, you have an eye as sharp as a peregrine falcon," Rook purred, leaning in to kiss the back of Vil’s hand, completely ignoring the planner. "It is fascinating to see how you care for every detail. Your dedication is, in itself, the most beautiful decoration of our wedding."
Vil rolled his eyes, though a small, soft smile—the kind only the huntsman had the privilege of seeing—curved his lips.
"Someone has to make sure we don't end up getting married in a moss-filled cabin, Rook. If it were up to you, we would have said our vows in the middle of a forest with no electricity and then you would go out to hunt for dinner."
"Ah, oui. Nature as a witness and the hunt as my proof of love..." Rook sighed dramatically, but then gently squeezed his fiancé's hand. "But I must admit, mon Roi du Poison, that your vision is superior. This balance we have found... c'est parfait."
Of course it was perfect. They had spent months debating, almost a year since their engagement. Rook, with his instinct to protect their privacy and his aversion to the artificial, and Vil, with his intrinsic need for beauty, grandeur, and perfection. The final agreement had been a diplomatic masterpiece: The most extravagant wedding in history, in absolute secrecy.
No press. No exclusives sold to magazines. No TV cameras. Only a select circle of the most influential and close people, gathered in a fortress of luxury and flowers. It was a million-dollar event designed for the enjoyment of only two people.
"Good," Vil said, turning to the planner, who seemed relieved that the attention shifted for a second. "We will proceed with the matte silk imported from the Coral Sea. And ensure the perimeter security has the anti-camera drones ready. If I see a single unauthorized flash, your agency will never work in this hemisphere again."
"Understood, Mr. Schoenheit. Absolutely. Everything is under control. The event is being kept in complete anonymity, and we have taken care to camouflage your guests' travel as a private charity gala."
When the planner finally withdrew, taking folders full of contracts and samples with him, the silence that fell in the room was warm, as sweet as an embrace in the middle of a freezing night.
One week left.
Rook let himself fall back onto the sofa, stretching his arms, and Vil, breaking his perfect posture, slid down to rest his head on the hunter's shoulder.
"Do you think it's too much?" Vil asked quietly, looking at the floral pattern painted on the ceiling. There was no insecurity in his tone about taste, but a deeper question about purpose.
"Too much?" Rook let out a soft laugh, running his fingers through Vil’s platinum hair, careful not to mess it up too much, though at this time of day he cared little. "Non. I have seen how you have worked, Vil. You are not organizing a party to impress the world. You are doing it for us. Every flower you chose, every dish on the menu, every note from the orchestra... you did it thinking if I would like it, or how we would feel."
Vil closed his eyes, enjoying Rook’s caresses on the nape of his neck, letting out a sigh of satisfaction.
"I wanted it to be worthy of you, Rook. You give me a love that is... overwhelmingly vast. I wanted the day we made it official to reflect that. Even if no one else sees it. In fact, especially because no one else will see it. It is ours."
"Ours," Rook repeated, feeling his heart beat a little faster. The anxiety was there, bubbling under the surface. Not anxiety from doubts, but that static electricity before a storm, a strange sense of prelude. "You know? I reviewed the contingency plans with the head of security today."
Vil raised an eyebrow, looking at him with amusement. "Plans? Plural."
"Naturellement. Plan A is that everything goes according to your perfect design. Plan B covers sudden storms or power failures; we have military-grade generators and invisible glass tents ready to deploy. Plan C is for press intrusions; Azul is providing security on the coasts and we have Monsieur Spontaneous ready to... deter the curious." Rook smiled with a predatory but playful glint. "And Plan D..."
"Is there a Plan D?" Vil laughed, a crystalline sound that relieved all the tension of the week.
"Plan D is if everything fails, if the world ends or if the place catches fire." Rook took Vil’s face in his hands, his expression suddenly turning solemn and devoted. "Plan D consists of me taking you in my arms, jumping out the window, and us getting married at the nearest civil registry while I sing sonnets to you on the way."
Vil laughed a little more and looked at Rook, his violet eyes shining with a mix of emotional moisture and fierce affection. "You are ridiculous, Rook Hunt."
"I am in love, Vil Schoenheit."
Vil gave his fiancé a soft kiss on the lips and rested his head back on his shoulder. They stayed like that for a long while, ignoring the phones vibrating with confirmation messages from vendors and emails from their agents. In that bubble of luxury and frantic planning, they found their peace.
"I'm nervous," Vil admitted suddenly, breaking the moment of silence.
"Me too," Rook confessed, releasing the breath he didn't know he was holding. "My hands have been trembling slightly since Tuesday. That is why I have been polishing my arrows obsessively. I need to do something with this energy."
"Fear?"
"Non. Anticipation. It is like being in the hunting stand, waiting for the most magnificent creature of the forest to appear, knowing that at any moment your life will change forever upon seeing it. Only... I have already seen you. And I still feel that lurch in my stomach every time I think about seeing you walk towards me at the altar."
Vil leaned in and kissed Rook again. It was a slow kiss, tasting of herbal tea and kept promises. There was no sexual urgency in that moment, only the desperate need to anchor themselves to each other before the maelstrom of the last few days separated them.
"We are ready," Vil murmured against Rook’s lips. "Everything is booked. Everything is paid for. Everything is planned."
"And most importantly," Rook whispered, brushing his nose against Vil’s, "we are ready."
Both knew that tranquility was a fleeting illusion. In a few days, the "silly tradition" (imposed by one of the grandmothers in Rook's social circle and obeyed out of pure theatrical superstition) of not seeing each other for 48 hours before the ceremony would come into effect. An unnecessary torture, but it was tradition and had to be respected.
But for now, amidst guest lists and fabric samples, they were together. And that was the only thing that mattered.
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Forty-eight hours.
For an average human, two days are barely a sigh in the immensity of time. For Rook, who had spent entire days motionless in the snow waiting for prey without blinking, patience was a cultivated virtue, a second skin. But these last forty-eight hours had not been a hunting wait. They had been a meticulously designed torture to test him.
He stood before the altar, set up three days ago, in the hotel's private botanical garden. The place was a dream: thousands of white and lilac roses, wisteria cascading from marble arches, perfect decorations in ivory and bone tones (Though the vast majority of people wouldn't notice they were totally different colors), and a golden sunset light that seemed filtered by the gods themselves. Everything was perfect. The air had a sweet and delicate floral scent, the entire atmosphere was ethereal and elegant.
But Rook felt like he couldn't breathe.
He adjusted his suit collar for the tenth time in the last minute. It was a custom-made suit, chantilly white with subtle gold details and a cut that accentuated his shoulders, designed by the same tailor who dressed the royalty of the Valley of Thorns. He looked impeccable and, according to comments from some guests, terribly attractive.
But inside, Rook was a mess.
What if he doesn't come?
The voice in his head was irrational. He knew it. Vil loved him. Vil had designed this place. Vil had chosen the flowers. Vil was just as anxious as he was. But Rook’s mind, deprived of the sight of his muse for two full days, had started playing cruel tricks. And, at Vil's request, he hadn't used his unique magic to spy.
He looked at the guests. Familiar and powerful faces. Kalim’s family, royalty representatives, school friends who were now successful adults. Everyone was smiling and murmuring (except Floyd who was talking loudly). Everyone was waiting.
Perhaps I was selfish, Rook thought, feeling a drop of cold sweat run down his back. He wanted it to be the event of the century. He wanted cameras, he wanted the world screaming his name. And I locked him in here, in this secret garden. What if he realized it yesterday? What if in these 48 hours of solitude he thought it wasn't worth marrying a man who asks him to hide his shine?
His heart hammered against his ribs like a bird trapped in a cage too small. His hands, usually steady and lethal with the bow, were trembling so much he had to clasp them in front of him to dissimulate, failing in the process.
"Rook," whispered Epel, who was beside him as his best man. The boy, now a handsome young man, gave him a discreet nudge. "Breathe. You're turning blue. He is going to come."
"I haven't seen him, Epel," Rook muttered, his voice cracking, losing all his usual composure and drama. "I haven't seen his light for two days. What if it went out for me?"
Before Epel could respond with some sarcastic comment to calm him down, the music changed.
The chamber orchestra, hidden among the hedges, stopped playing the soft ambient melody and began the entrance chords. It wasn't the traditional wedding march. It was an original composition, dramatic, ethereal, and powerful. Vil had commissioned it specifically for this moment.
The guests' murmuring ceased at once. Everyone stood up.
Rook turned his head toward the start of the aisle, at the end of the garden, where two huge wrought-iron gates covered in vines began to open slowly.
And then, Rook Hunt’s world stopped.
All doubts, fear, anxiety, and voices in his head were silenced instantly, as if someone had flipped a switch. Because there he was.
Vil Schoenheit wasn't walking. Vil was floating. Or at least, that’s how it seemed to Rook.
If there was ever a doubt about whether Vil was the most beautiful being on the face of the earth, that moment eradicated it from history. Vil wore a suit that defied simple description. It was white, yes, but the fabric seemed woven from moonlight. A long, translucent cape, embroidered with tiny crystals that caught the last rays of the sun, flowed behind him like folded wings. His hair was slicked back in a way that fully revealed his face, crowned by a fine diamond tiara that looked like a modern halo. Some very slight details in lavender tones gave him a special glow that radiated peace and pure beauty.
But it wasn't just the clothes. It was him.
Vil walked with devastating confidence, but his eyes... his violet eyes were fixed solely on Rook. There was a vulnerability in his gaze that hit Rook in the chest with the force of an arrow.
Rook felt his cheeks burn. Heat rose up his neck to his ears. He felt small, unworthy, and at the same time, the luckiest man to have ever existed in any universe.
Mon Dieu... Rook thought, unable to articulate a word. Is this an angel coming to save me or a beautiful demon coming to claim my soul? I don't care. I surrender. He was about to say it out loud.
As Vil advanced down the aisle, his own thoughts were a chaotic whirlwind contrasting with his elegant stride.
Vil had been just as nervous as Rook. The solitude of the 48 hours had made him question if the floral design was correct, if the music was too pretentious, if the weather would hold. But the moment the gates opened and he saw Rook waiting for him at the end of the aisle, all of that disappeared.
Rook looked... dangerous.
Even in a wedding suit, even with that expression of total awe on his face and flushed cheeks, Rook radiated that predatory aura that had always secretly fascinated Vil. He looked impeccable. The cut of the suit highlighted his athletic figure, the tense posture of a hunter ready to pounce. His blonde hair shone, and those green eyes looked at him with a devotion so raw, so naked, that Vil felt his knees tremble.
Vil had to use all his experience as an actor not to run to him. He felt overwhelmed by how handsome his fiancé was. It was a beauty different from his own; it was wild, intense, warm.
When he finally reached the altar, Rook extended a trembling hand. Vil took it without hesitation, though he was also trembling, and the skin-on-skin contact sent an electric shock through both of them that almost made them gasp.
The officiant began to speak. He said beautiful words about love, commitment, the union of two souls, and the legality of the act. He spoke about their history, about the future.
Rook heard nothing. And neither did Vil.
For them, the ambient sound had become a distant hum, like the sound of the sea inside a seashell. The world had reduced to the other’s presence.
Rook watched Vil’s lips, the perfect skin, the way his eyelashes cast shadows on his perfect cheekbones. He heard the beat of his own heart pounding in his ears, so loud he feared the microphones would pick it up.
Vil was lost in the green of Rook’s eyes. He saw his own reflection in them. He saw years of history, saw the shared mornings, the silly arguments, the moments of unconditional support. He saw his home.
The officiant paused and looked at them expectantly.
There was a silence of a few seconds. Epel coughed discreetly.
Vil blinked, returning to reality just enough to understand it was his turn. He didn't know exactly what the man had asked, but he knew the answer. He had known it for years.
"Yes, I do," Vil said. His voice wasn't the projected voice of a film actor. It was a broken, intimate, real whisper.
Rook squeezed Vil’s hand tightly, as if afraid he would vanish.
"Yes..." Rook had to clear his throat, his eyes filling with tears he didn't bother to hide. "Oui, je le veux. I do. With every fiber of my being, I do."
The exchange of rings was clumsy due to the trembling of their hands, something that made both let out a nervous giggle that broke the solemnity and made them feel infinitely closer. And when finally the officiant said: "You may kiss the groom," they didn't wait.
Rook closed the distance in an instant, taking Vil’s face with both hands, treating him as if he were sacred glass—because for him, he was—and kissed him.
It wasn't a movie kiss for the cameras. It was a desperate kiss, full of relief, of contained love, of promise. A kiss that sealed the pact that, from now on, they would never again have to spend 48 hours apart if they didn't want to.
The guests' applause erupted around them, but for them, they remained alone in their bubble. Even after they separated, even after they left the garden to go to the adjoining rooms.
The reception was the definition of elegance.
Held in the hotel's grand ballroom, with crystal chandeliers hanging like tears of light and tables decorated with floral arrangements that were living sculptures. The food was exquisite, champagne flowed like spring water, and the music was perfect.
But what really shone was not the decoration, but the grooms.
Rook and Vil moved through the room as a single entity. Even when they had to separate briefly to greet a distant relative or thank a famous producer for coming, their gazes sought each other constantly, like magnets.
Rook couldn't stop touching Vil. A hand on his lower waist, a brush of fingers on his arm, a stolen kiss on the cheek when no one was looking (or when everyone was looking, he didn't care anymore). The anxiety had disappeared completely, replaced by a golden euphoria.
"Are you having fun, mon mari?" Rook whispered in Vil’s ear as they swayed gently in the middle of the dance floor, even though the song wasn't slow.
The word "mari" made Vil shiver with pleasure. He gave Rook a flirtatious look, his eyes shining with the effect of having drunk 4 glasses of champagne and the happiness of having married his high school sweetheart.
"It is acceptable," Vil joked, with that playful arrogance Rook adored. "Though I think the groom is hogging all my attention and not letting me socialize with my guests."
"The groom is a possessive man tonight, I fear," Rook lowered his hand to gently squeeze Vil’s hip, pulling him closer, breaking any protocol of etiquette. "Besides, you already greeted everyone. Now you are mine."
"I always was, chasseur," Vil admitted, resting his forehead against Rook’s. "I was always yours."
They danced until their feet hurt, laughed with their friends until they ran out of air, and ate cake smudging their lips a little, cleaning each other with a tenderness that made Rook’s aunts sigh.
It was extravagant. It was luxurious. It was private. But above all, it was the happiest day of their lives.
And yet, as the last guests enjoyed the height of the party and the band began to play livelier pieces, both shared a look charged with a new kind of electricity.
The party had been wonderful, yes. But the true celebration... the celebration of their souls and bodies... was about to begin in the hotel suite.
"Shall we go?" Rook asked, his voice dropping an octave, husky and promising.
Vil nodded, biting his lower lip, his eyes darkening with desire and pure love.
"The grooms always have to be the first to leave."
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The door closed, isolating the outside world, but this time there was a moment of absolute stillness.
Rook stood by the door, hands relaxed at his sides, simply watching. His green eyes swept over Vil from head to toe with an intensity that almost had physical weight. It wasn't the look of a hungry predator about to attack, but that of a devotee before a divine apparition.
"Are you not going to kiss me?" Vil asked, his voice trembling slightly, betraying the nerves that still persisted.
"I have all night, ma beauté," Rook replied softly, taking a slow step toward him. "I have all my life. I want to memorize you like this, dressed in moonlight, before undressing you."
Rook approached slowly, savoring the anticipation. When he finally touched him, it was with infuriating delicacy. His fingers traced Vil’s jawline, slowly moving up to his cheek, and finally, he leaned in to kiss him.
The kiss was slow, charged with desire and the purest love.
He began to undress Vil as if he were unwrapping the most precious gift in the universe. And he was. Each button of the vest was undone with infinite patience. Rook kissed the skin that was being exposed: a kiss on the collarbone as he removed the shirt, a kiss on the shoulder, a kiss on the inner wrist.
Vil felt his knees failing. The slowness was exquisite torture. He wanted to rip Rook’s clothes off, wanted to feel skin, but found himself mesmerized by the reverence with which Rook treated him and was forced to follow that slow rhythm as he undressed his husband.
When they were finally both naked, and finally skin against skin, the moan Vil let out upon feeling Rook’s firm chest against his was pure need.
Rook gave him no truce. He lifted him by the thighs, and Vil, by instinct, wrapped his legs around the hunter’s waist.
The suite’s dim lighting gilded their skin. Rook carried Vil to the bed, laid him on the cool sheets, and hovered over him, supporting his weight on his arms, trapping Vil in a cage of muscle and warmth.
"You are so beautiful it hurts to look at you," Rook confessed, his voice husky.
He lowered his head and began to kiss Vil’s chest. He didn't bite, not yet. He licked. He ran his flat tongue over a nipple, savoring Vil’s immediate reaction, the small gasp, the involuntary arching of the back. And then he did the same with the other.
Rook dedicated entire minutes to exploring Vil’s torso, moving down inch by inch, stopping to massage his sides, to admire the curve of his waist.
When his hand finally wrapped around Vil’s erection, there were no sudden movements. It was a firm, warm grip, followed by a slow caress from base to tip, dragging the precum to lubricate the glans.
"Rook..." Vil moaned, throwing his head back, exposing his long, elegant neck. "Please... I need you."
"Patience, Mon Roi."
Rook didn't speed up. He kept a steady rhythm with his hand, up and down, enjoying the sight of Vil coming undone. He watched how Vil’s abs contracted, how his breath hitched. Rook brushed his thumb over the sensitive tip, spreading the clear liquid, making Vil’s hips rise seeking more friction.
But Rook wanted more. He let go of Vil for just a second to lean forward.
"Let me taste you," he whispered against the skin of Vil’s thigh.
Rook lowered his head and, without warning, licked the entire length of Vil’s member in one long, wet stroke. Vil let out a stifled cry. Rook opened his mouth and took him, not with urgency, but with a deep, hollow suction that made Vil’s toes curl. Rook used his tongue to play with the sensitive underside, adoring him, tasting his own arousal on his husband’s skin.
While his mouth kept Vil on a constant edge of pleasure, Rook’s free hand sought the oil on the nightstand.
Rook coated his fingers with oil and pressed his thumb against the entrance, massaging the outer ring in slow circles, relaxing the muscle. Vil gasped, feeling the pressure. Then, Rook slid his index finger inside, and pulled back a little to observe Vil’s expressions.
The sensation was electric. Rook didn't just push; he curled his finger, seeking Vil’s prostate with sniper precision.
"Ah... Rook!" Vil moaned, feeling that specific internal pressure.
Rook added a second finger, beginning a slow and deliberate scissoring movement. In and out slowly, stretching Vil, preparing him, making Vil’s interior adjust to the invasion. The wet sound of Rook’s fingers entering and leaving mixed with Vil’s increasingly loud moans. Rook twisted his wrist, hitting that sweet spot again and again, while with his other hand he went back to caressing Vil’s erection, attacking him on two fronts.
It was too much. The sensation of fingers stretching and massaging him inside, combined with the expert hand on his length, drove Vil to the edge of his sanity.
"Please... Rook, please..." Vil pleaded, on the brink of madness, with tears in his eyes, breaking his perfect and ethereal role due to need and desire. "I can't take it anymore, I need you inside!"
Rook withdrew his fingers slowly, leaving Vil with an unbearable feeling of emptiness. He settled between Vil’s legs, spreading his thighs and placing Vil’s legs over his shoulders. The sight of Vil open, vulnerable, and exposed just for him made Rook have to close his eyes for a second to control his own desire.
"Do you want me to put on a condom, ma reine?"
"Shut up and do it at once... Ngh...!"
Rook pushed.
It wasn't gentle. It was a single, deep, possessive thrust that buried his full length inside Vil in one strike.
Vil’s cry was a mix of pain and absolute ecstasy. He felt how Rook filled him completely, stretching his inner walls to the limit, occupying every empty space in his body. The feeling of fullness was overwhelming and gratifying.
Rook stopped for a second, grunting with gritted teeth, fighting the urge to move fast, letting Vil get used to his size.
"Mine," Rook growled, his voice husky and guttural. "You are mine, Vil. All of you."
"Yours... ah... move, damn it..."
Rook began to thrust. At first, they were long, deep movements, withdrawing almost completely only to drive back in with force, hitting that sweet spot inside Vil again and again. The sound of skin slapping against skin echoed in the room: smack, smack, smack, wet and obscene.
Vil was no longer the beautiful, controlled man as always. No. Now he was pure instinct. His legs were wide open, his heels hitting Rook’s lower back. He moaned his husband’s name endlessly, his head moving from side to side on the pillow, completely undone.
"There! AH! Don't stop... ngh..." Vil shouted when Rook changed the angle, his hips moving with lethal precision, rubbing his prostate with every brutal thrust.
Rook leaned over him, capturing Vil’s lips in a devouring kiss while his hips continued to pound without mercy. The friction was unbearable, delicious. Their sweat mixed, making their torsos slide against each other.
Rook lowered a hand to wrap around Vil’s erection, masturbating him to the rhythm of his thrusts. That was too much.
"I'm going to... Rook, I'm going to...!" Vil tensed, his body arching like a bow ready to fire.
"Come for me, Mon Roi." Rook accelerated, his thrusts becoming frantic, animalistic, losing any trace of delicacy.
Vil came with a scream that tore at his throat, spurts of hot semen staining his own belly and Rook’s hand, while his inner walls contracted violently around his husband’s member.
Those contractions were Rook’s undoing. With a final growl, he sank to the hilt one last time and emptied himself inside Vil, pouring waves of his own hot essence deep into his husband, marking him in the most primitive way possible.
Both remained frozen in that final embrace, trembling, panting, hearts beating so hard they seemed about to explode.
Rook collapsed onto Vil but was careful to support his weight on his elbows. He buried his face in Vil’s sweat-soaked neck, kissing the salty skin, feeling Vil’s pulse slowly calming under his lips.
Slowly, very slowly, Rook pulled out of him, a thread of mixed fluids escaping Vil’s body. Rook looked at him; Vil was undone, hair sticking to his forehead, lips swollen, red marks on his hips where Rook had held him too tightly, and an expression of absolute peace and happy exhaustion.
"Je t'aime," Rook gasped, wiping sweat from Vil’s forehead with his thumb.
Vil opened his eyes heavily, a lazy, satisfied smile curving his lips. "And I love you..."
Just two minutes later Vil pushed Rook against the bed and climbed on top of his hips.
"You said we have all night, didn't you?" Vil said, with a smile of pure flirtation and desire.
"All life, ma belle." Rook went back to holding Vil’s hip as he helped him down.
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The days that followed the wedding were not measured in hours, but in moments of absolute bliss. There was no need to travel to exotic places or fill the schedule with frantic sightseeing. For two people whose lives were usually timed to the millimeter by agents and producers, true luxury was not seeing monuments or exploring the unknown, but the simple act of doing nothing.
The week passed in a golden haze of relaxation.
They woke up late, ordered breakfast to the room at ungodly hours, and spent long hours on the private terrace of their suite, reading in silence or simply looking at the sea, legs intertwined on a lounge chair. Rook read poetry aloud to Vil while he enjoyed a face mask, and Vil let himself be pampered, allowing Rook to apply sunscreen with a slowness that always ended in lazy kisses and stifled laughter.
It was halfway through the week when they decided to venture out of their refuge, only to have tea in the hotel’s private lounge, an exclusive and quiet area where they could be sure no one would bother them.
They were seated at a discreet table near a large window, enjoying a selection of imported teas. Vil wore large sunglasses and a wide-brimmed hat, the standard "camouflage" of a celebrity, though his characteristic posture gave him away from miles. Rook, beside him, held his hand on the table with no intention of letting go. Each was checking their respective cell phone, finally catching up with the outside world.
A young girl, a guest of the hotel, passed near their table. She stopped dead, her eyes widening with immediate recognition upon seeing Vil’s perfect and beautiful profile. Vil tensed, but the girl didn't pull out a phone. She didn't scream. She simply lowered her gaze to the table. Her eyes landed on their intertwined hands and saw the rings.
Understanding lit up the girl’s face. There was no judgment, no scandal. Only a soft, genuine, and warm smile.
"You look beautiful together," the girl said quietly, in a respectful tone. "Congratulations to you both."
She gave a small bow and went on her way. Vil looked at their joined hands, the rings shining, and a small but proud smile curved his lips.
"Thank you," he murmured to the air, though the girl had already left.
However, the peace of a celebrity is fragile.
Barely an hour later, back in the safety of their suite, Vil’s phone began to vibrate as if possessed. Notifications from Magicam, messages from his agent, news alerts.
Someone else had been in the tea lounge. Someone less respectful than the girl.
A photo, taken from a furtive angle behind a potted plant, was circulating all over Magicam. It showed the two of them, in profile, hands intertwined and rings shining. The title of the viral post was: “IS KING VIL MARRIED?! Look at those rings!”
Vil threw the phone onto the velvet sofa, pacing the room, visibly annoyed.
"It is unheard of," Vil hissed. "Simply unheard of. We planned to announce it with a Vogue editorial, with a decent photographer, with the right lighting. Look at that photo, Rook! It’s grainy, the light is terrible, and my hat looks crooked. They have stolen our narrative and with bad quality on top of that!"
He was furious at the lack of control, at the intrusion into their sacred bubble. Rook, observing the scene calmly, stood up and intercepted Vil on one of his turns, catching him gently by the waist.
"Vil," Rook said, his calm voice cutting through the air. "Look at me."
"It's just that they have no respect! This week was supposed to be ours..."
"And it is still ours," Rook assured, taking Vil’s face in his hands. "But, Mon Roi, you are the director of your own play. If you don't like the narrative they are telling, change it."
Vil paused, his frown softening slightly. "What do you mean?"
Rook smiled with that mischievous and confident glint, pulling out his own phone.
"Why let a blurry, stolen photo be the cover of our story? We have hundreds of beautiful photos from this week. That one we took on the terrace at sunrise, with the golden light on your skin... it was sublime. Or the one from last night, before dinner. If the world is going to know, let them know on your terms. Eclipse their cheap gossip with your absolute perfection."
Understanding shone in Vil’s violet eyes. His posture straightened, recovering that imperial assurance.
"You are right," Vil said, extending his hand. "Pass me the phone."
They selected a photo together. It was an intimate image, taken by Rook on the terrace: Vil looking at the horizon with a serene and authentic smile, and Rook kissing his temple, with hands intertwined in the foreground showing the rings with perfect sharpness. The light was divine, the composition flawless.
Vil wrote a simple caption: "Forever. 🏹👑". And pressed post.
In seconds, the fan’s blurry photo was buried under the avalanche of love and admiration for the official post. Vil let out a sigh of satisfaction, placing the phone face down. He had regained control.
"Much better," Vil stated with a triumphant smile.
"Absolutely," Rook agreed, kissing him softly. "Now, come. Let’s forget the digital world."
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Hours later, the atmosphere in the room was one of deep, heavy gratitude. The incident had been forgotten, replaced by intimacy.
They were in bed, surrounded by soft gloom and the scent of sandalwood candles. They had made love a while ago, a tender union to erase stress, and now lay curled up, skin against skin, resisting sleep.
Vil rested his head on Rook’s chest, listening to the steady, strong beat of his heart. Rook caressed Vil’s bare arm, his fingers tracing invisible constellations on his pale skin.
"You are beautiful," Rook said suddenly, his deep voice breaking the comfortable silence.
Vil let out a soft chuckle, without opening his eyes. "Rook, you have already told me that at least twenty times today."
"And I will tell you a million times more, Mon Roi. But listen to me..." Rook shifted slightly so he could look at Vil’s face. He took his chin delicately, forcing him to look him in the eye. "I am not speaking only of your face. Your physical beauty is undeniable, Vil, you eclipse any star. But this week..."
Rook paused, his green eyes shining with an emotion so pure that Vil found it hard to hold his gaze.
"I have loved seeing you laugh without worrying about wrinkles. I have loved seeing you eat without counting calories. I love your mind, Vil. I love that steel determination that has taken you to the top, but I also love your heart. That heart that cares so much, that protects its own with such ferocity under that layer of ice. I love your insecurities because they allow me to remind you how valuable you are. I love every part of you, from your imperial strength to the shadows you try to hide from the world."
Vil felt his eyes filling with tears. They weren't words from a fan, nor a critic, nor Magicam. They were words from the man who saw everything of him.
"Shut up... You overwhelm me..." Vil whispered, his voice cracking. He hid his face in the crook of Rook’s neck, hugging him tightly, clinging to him. "You are impossible, Rook Hunt. You are going to make me cry."
"I think I have never seen you cry... not like this," Rook murmured, kissing his hair, wrapping him in his protective arms. "I will take care of you. Always. I am yours, Vil. Completely yours."
"You are... unbearable... and that was terribly cheesy..." Vil responded, allowing himself to let his guard down completely, letting himself be carried away by the beautiful warmth he felt in his chest. "I love you... I love you so much..."
"Je t'aime aussi, mon Roi du Poison."