CHAPTER 1
The stage lights were blinding, like many tiny suns, making the person on stage look like a dark shape. He seemed frozen, like a picture that couldn't move. The stage itself was small, about fifteen feet wide, but it felt huge, like a giant sports arena.
Behind him hung heavy velvet curtains, black and red, filling the air with the smell of dust, perfume, and a scary feeling. The air was thick and hot, making it hard to breathe, like holding your breath for too long. It smelled of sweat, fear, and expensive cologne—the smell of many secrets.
Just behind the curtain, Thanonchai stood.
He was eighteen years old, new to this strange place, and his eyes were wide with wonder and fear.
It was hard for him to breathe. The robe they had put on him was loose and made of very fine silk that felt like air.
It was off-white, almost the color of bone.
It only fit tightly at his waist, where a red ribbon was tied in a small bow.
His collarbones stuck out from the robe, and his chest moved up and down with shaky breaths.
His feet were bare, and the floor was cold. Every little sound echoed loudly.
In his arms, he held the only thing left from his old life: a small, white bunny plushie.
It was old and worn from being loved for many years, with one ear half-torn and stains on its soft fabric.
It looked totally out of place among the fancy velvet and gold, a sad reminder in a shiny room.
But he held it as if it were his mother's hand, holding on tightly.
His knees shook, and his lips trembled. From somewhere in the dark, a number was called—his number.
“Lot Forty-Nine. Virgin. Untrained. Recently bought. Eighteen. Healthy. Untouched.”
Then, the curtain opened.
Thanonchai blinked because of the bright lights overhead.
He took one slow, shaky step into the bright light.
Then another. The world beyond the stage slowly became clear, like a bad dream coming into focus.
Rows and rows of small rooms lined the large auction hall.
The people inside were hidden in shadows and velvet.
Some watched with amusement, some with hunger, and others with the cold, calculating look of men choosing animals.
Champagne glasses sparkled. Cigarette smoke curled into the air like the ghosts of guilt.
Everything was gold, black, and red.
But no one spoke. The air was completely silent.
Thanonchai had expected music, clapping, or a voice encouraging people to bid, like they had done for the boy before him—a flexible, skilled dancer who had winked and smiled as his price went up with every offer.
But for Thanonchai, there was nothing. Just silence. And the stares of dangerous people.
He didn't understand any of it. Why was he here? Why did they want him? He wasn't charming or graceful. He didn't know how to perform. He only knew how to survive. His fingers clutched the bunny tighter, holding it close for comfort.
High above the main floor, behind glass and fancy gold decorations, a private room looked down on the chaos—a room like a king’s throne, set above the dark dealings below.
Inside, spread out on a black armchair that looked like something from hell, sat the man who controlled the room without saying a single word.
Inthorn Thanawanich.
The Beast of Bangkok.
The Shadow of Suthon.
Rumors said he had actually eaten his enemies.
That he had poisoned his own father with a kiss and taken his mother’s business by setting her lovers on fire.
That he once fed a senator to his dogs and recorded it all in perfect detail.
That he didn't just build his empire; he suffered for it, killed for it, and went through terrible things to own it.
Tonight, he watched the stage with the bored amusement of a man surrounded by too much luxury.
A boy knelt between his legs, slowly trying to pleasure him, sucking his dick, trying to get a reaction from a man too dangerous to ever seem happy.
Another boy leaned against his shoulder, his lips gently touching Inthorn’s jaw, while a girl sat on one of his thighs, her moans soft like silk.
Inthorn barely let them touch him. A few seconds of pleasure, a few brief moments of feeling, before he grew tired and slapped the boy across the mouth with the back of his hand, which was covered in rings.
The boy gasped. The girl whimpered. The one between his legs didn't dare stop.
Inthorn laughed—a deep, cruel, uncaring sound. He leaned his head back, eyes half-closed, bored with pleasure.
Until he heard it.
“Lot Forty-Nine.”
Then the curtains opened.
And Thanonchai stepped into the light.
Inthorn’s eyes opened fully.
And everything stopped.
The laughter died in his throat. His breath caught in his lungs. It was as if someone had dropped a delicate glass in the middle of a church, and no one dared to move.
Thanonchai stood in the middle of the stage like a ghost from an old story.
His brown eyes shimmered with tears he hadn't yet cried.
His cheeks were red with shame. His hands trembled as he pressed the worn-out rabbit to his chest like a shield.
His innocence was shocking, even sickening—something pure brought into a room full of monsters.
And Inthorn?
He smiled.
No—he smirked.
Then, he laughed.
A sharp, twisted sound that echoed through the auction house like the crack of a whip.
It wasn't amused. It was hungry. That laugh alone was enough to make the staff stand stiff.
Enough to send waves of fear through everyone present.
Because when Inthorn laughed like that, it meant someone would suffer.
The boy at his feet froze. The girl turned pale. The others immediately moved away.
Inthorn stood up. He rose with the smooth grace of a panther, slow and deliberate, shaking off the people around him like dust. His silk coat spread out with the movement, shadows clinging to him like old lovers.
He shoved the boy from between his legs.
Kicked the girl to the floor. Pushed the one who had been kissing him with a boot to the chest.
“Out,” he said, his voice sharp.
They didn’t argue. They ran.
The hall remained silent. No one dared to breathe.
Thanonchai blinked, confused. Why had it gone quiet? Why weren’t they speaking? Why wasn’t anyone bidding?
From his spot on the stage, he couldn’t see Inthorn come down—but he felt it. Like the room was changing around his presence. Like the lights themselves followed his steps, bending toward him like flowers turning to the sun.
Then he appeared. A man of gold and shadow, dressed in a silk shirt half-open, showing off tattoos across a chest that looked like it was carved from stone. Symbols of death gods and broken empires marked his skin. His eyes were dark like a black gem, mixed with fire.
Thanonchai took a step back. The plushie almost slipped from his hands. But Inthorn reached out—and caught him.
Two fingers beneath his chin, tilting his face up. His touch wasn’t mean, but it wasn’t gentle either. It was absolute. Like the way kings held swords. Like the way executioners held blades. He looked at him, head tilted slightly, as if trying to figure out if he was real.
“You’re the one they tried to hide,” Inthorn whispered. His voice was low, tempting. It wrapped around Thanonchai’s spine and made his knees weak.
Thanonchai trembled. His lips parted. “P-please…”
Inthorn leaned in. Closer. His breath was warm against Thanonchai’s cheek.
“Say that again,” he whispered. “Begging sounds like music on a mouth like yours.”
Thanonchai’s breath hitched.
Inthorn straightened. Then, without even looking at the announcer, he snapped his fingers once.
“This one’s mine.”
The silence shattered.
The announcer blinked. “M-Mr. Thanawanich—w-we haven’t even started the—”
“SOLD,” Inthorn snarled. The word was like a clap of thunder. Final. Permanent.
Everyone in the room froze. Because this wasn’t a democracy.
This was his house. His auction. His rules.
Thanonchai swayed on his feet. The plushie slipped again—but Inthorn caught it easily, before putting it back into the boy’s arms. He didn’t say a word as he turned and began walking, pulling the boy behind him with a firm grip on his wrist.
No protest. No permission. Just possession.
The crowd parted like the Red Sea. No one dared to speak. No one dared to breathe.
Thanonchai stumbled after him. Still trembling. Still clutching the bunny. Still waiting to wake from a nightmare he hadn’t even begun to understand.
And so began the story of the boy who was sold to a beast. A boy named Thanonchai. And the nightmare called Inthorn Thanawanich.