CHAPTER 3
The morning light filtered into the grand bedroom through sheer curtains, soft as smoke but cold against the skin.
It painted the pale marble floor in trembling shadows, catching on the edges of gold fixtures and velvet drapes.
The air was cool and still, so quiet that Noi could almost hear his own heart beating.
There was no sound but the faint, steady hum of the air conditioning.
The room was too clean, almost sterile. Too quiet, with a stillness that felt heavy. Too perfect, like a picture that wasn't quite real.
Thanonchai—or Noi, as they now called him, his new name given by his new master—stirred beneath the plush blankets of the enormous bed, arms wrapped tightly around his bunny plushie.
The mended ear, stitched the night before with delicate golden thread, still drooped as if mourning a lost part of itself.
He blinked sleepily, his eyes swollen with exhaustion, his lips dry and chapped.
He sat up slowly, his body stiff. The silken sheets slipped down his chest, exposing faint bruises at his collarbone—like ghost-kisses, leftover reminders of teeth and cold, hard control from the night before. He shivered, a chill that had nothing to do with the cool air.
The silence in the room was unnatural. It wasn't peaceful or comforting.
Instead, it was expectant, as if the very walls were listening, waiting for something to happen.
He stood on shaky legs, the soft silk pajamas brushing against his skin like whispers.
Crossing the room, he entered the luxurious bathroom and flicked on the light.
A stranger looked back from the mirror. Clean, yes.
Bruised, yes. Alive… barely. His eyes were wide and held a deep, uncomprehending fear.
He stared at himself for a long, quiet moment, trying to connect with the person in the reflection, before lowering his eyes and splashing cold water on his face.
The sting of the cold helped clear his head.
The chill reminded him he was still here. Still breathing.
Still trapped in this golden cage.
He dried his face slowly, then exited the bathroom, feeling the weight of the mansion pressing in on him.
The vast estate was already alive with activity, even though it was still early morning.
Guards flanked the grand staircases, standing perfectly still like carved statues, their faces blank.
Maids moved through the hallways like whispers—silent, efficient, trained not to meet anyone's eyes, especially not the master's.
Chandeliers glittered overhead, dripping with light and the cold, hard gleam of immense wealth.
The world of Inthorn Thanawanich ran on two powerful forces: fear and flawless order.
Every person, every object, had its place and purpose.
When Noi finally entered the grand dining hall, the rich scent of roasted meat, sweet tropical fruit, and spiced wine clung to the air, making his stomach clench with a mix of hunger and nervousness.
Inthorn sat at the head of the long black-marble table, sprawled like a king at a banquet, with half-finished dishes before him, a sign of his immense power and appetite.
His dark hair was damp, pushed back from his face, looking freshly washed.
His silk robe hung open at the chest, revealing the intricate gold-tattooed skin that marked him as something ancient and dangerous.
He looked well-rested, or at least dangerous in a way that didn't require sleep, his energy coming from a darker source.
To his right sat Dae Kittisak, flipping through a file with casual elegance, completely at ease in this imposing environment.
Coffee steamed from a porcelain cup near his hand, its warmth contrasting with his cold, unreadable expression.
His long hair was pulled back neatly, and his face—like always—showed no emotion, making him a perfect shadow to Inthorn.
Inthorn’s gaze lifted the moment Noi entered the hall, sharp and immediate. He said nothing, no greeting, no command spoken aloud. Just pointed to the chair beside him—two fingers, subtle, yet absolutely commanding.
Noi obeyed instantly, his legs moving on their own.
His bunny plushie stayed tucked tightly in his arms as he slid into the velvet-padded seat, his shoulders tight with nervous energy.
A maid, moving silently, placed a plate in front of him: thin slices of toast, sweet sliced mango, and a small cup of jasmine tea.
He ate in silence, taking tiny bites, chewing slowly, trying to make the food last. He didn’t dare look up, keeping his gaze fixed on his plate.
But he could feel the intense heat of Inthorn’s gaze upon him.
It felt like a hand stroking down his spine, sending shivers through him.
It felt like a leash tightening around his throat, reminding him of his new status.
The man never looked away, not even for a moment.
Even as he cut into a slice of bright dragonfruit, even as he lifted his glass of wine to his lips—his eyes remained fixed on Noi.
Noi swallowed hard, his throat dry. Dae, meanwhile, continued reading his file, seemingly unaware of the silent tension.
Then—
A whisper. The butler, Wichai, a man of quiet efficiency, leaned close to Inthorn, speaking low. His hand covered his mouth, making his words impossible to hear. His voice didn’t carry beyond Inthorn. But the air in the room shifted, a subtle change that Noi felt keenly.
Inthorn’s expression changed. His lips curled, a slow, terrifying transformation.
And then, he laughed.
It was a sound that didn't belong at a breakfast table, a sound that violated the calm. It wasn’t a polite chuckle.
It wasn’t amused in any normal way.
It was madness.
Sharp, feral, unholy. A sound that could carve into your bones and echo for hours, chilling you to the core.
Noi jumped in his chair, startled, almost dropping his fork with a clatter.
His heart slammed into his ribs, a frantic bird trying to escape.
Inthorn’s gaze snapped to him mid-laugh—eyes glittering like broken glass, full of dangerous amusement, his lips pulled into a wide grin that showed his teeth.
Then, softly, chillingly:
“Keep eating, Noi.”
He rose from the table, his silk robe flowing around him.
“I have a mess to clean up.”
Dae stood with him, closing the file he had been reading, ready to follow.
They exited the dining hall together, their footsteps echoing.
And something inside Noi told him—whatever “mess” it was, it would bleed.
The basement of the Inthorn Thanawanich estate was a place of shadows and cold.
No windows allowed light or warmth to enter.
Just smooth concrete floors, polished tile, and rows of cells and sealed doors.
Each room down here was designed with a specific, grim purpose—some for storage, some for secrets.
Some for ANIMALS, which was a chilling thought.
But one room was always reserved for betrayal.
Inside, a man knelt in chains, his body slumped.
Blood caked his jaw, a dark, ugly stain.
His shirt was torn, hanging in tatters. One eye was swollen shut, a raw, purple mess.
His lip had split during interrogation, making speaking difficult.
Two guards stood at either side of him, both grim and silent, their presence intimidating.
He had once worn the Thanawanich black uniform.
He had once been one of them, part of the inner circle.
Now he was prey.
Inthorn entered with a slow, purposeful step, like a hunter approaching his kill.
No coat, no robes. Just shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing his powerful forearms, and gloves already tugged onto his hands, ready for work.
Dae stood just outside the room, arms crossed, his watchful gaze fixed on the scene.
“You were never one of mine,” Inthorn said, his voice quiet but firm, filled with cold certainty. “You didn’t kneel. You didn’t flinch. You didn’t belong.”
The man spat blood onto the concrete floor, a defiant, weak gesture. “You’re fucking insane.”
A slow, chilling smile tugged at the corners of Inthorn’s mouth, a hint of the madness the man spoke of.
“Insane enough to ask again: Who sent you?”
No answer came, only heavy, ragged breathing.
So came the punishment.
The room filled with screams, tearing through the silence. Razor wire scraped against skin. Saltwater was thrown onto open wounds, making him writhe. Flames were held against flesh, leaving burn marks.
The man screamed until his throat bled, raw and torn. Still—no answer, or at least, not the one Inthorn wanted.
But Inthorn had patience. A dangerous, endless kind of patience.
And skill. A terrible, precise skill.
Eventually, the traitor broke, his spirit shattered.
“Sarut!” he sobbed, the name barely a whisper. “Your brother—Sarut Thanawanich! He wanted your files. He wanted the names. The structure—"
Inthorn leaned in, his face close to the broken man's. He brushed the man’s matted hair back like a lover, a gesture of perverse tenderness.
“Good boy.”
Then he whispered to the guards, his voice chillingly calm:
“Surgical room. Now.”
The room gleamed under harsh, unforgiving light.
Sterile. Cold. The operating table was made of steel, unforgiving and stark.
The tools were lined up neatly in velvet-lined drawers—scalpels, bone saws, clamps.
Each one cleaned to perfection, shining under the bright lights, ready for their gruesome purpose.
The traitor was restrained on the table, tied down tightly. His mouth was gagged, his screams muffled to desperate whimpers. His eyes were wide with pure horror, reflecting the overhead lights like tiny, terrified moons.
Inthorn pulled on a fresh pair of latex gloves, then tied on a surgical mask, covering half his face.
His dark tattoos peeked from the collar of his white shirt, stark against the fabric.
He looked like a surgeon, precise and calculating.
A god, deciding life and death. A demon in latex, ready to inflict unimaginable pain.
“Take notes if you want,” he told Dae, who stood silently by the wall, a silent witness. “I’m experimenting with slow extraction today.”
The screams returned, muffled and animalistic, inhuman sounds of agony.
Organ by organ.
The heart was last.
When it was done, when the man's last breath had been exhaled, Inthorn peeled off his crimson-stained gloves and tossed them aside, a gesture of completion. His hands were stained with blood, but his breath was even, showing no sign of effort. His movements were precise, efficient. He didn’t tremble, not a single muscle twitching.
“Feed the leftovers to the ANIMALS,” he said quietly, his voice still calm, a chilling command.
Dae nodded, already signaling the clean-up crew, who waited outside for their grim task.
_____
In the shower, Inthorn stood under scalding hot water. The blood slid down his body like paint, swirling down the drain, pooling at his feet in a crimson vortex.
But it wouldn’t wash away the memories.
His mother’s eyes, wide with terror.
Her screams, piercing and raw.
His father’s knife, gleaming in the light.
His siblings clapping as she bled, calling it a lesson in strength, a brutal education.
He pressed his fists to the tiled wall, knuckles white, and let out a quiet, strangled sound that never truly left his throat, a sound of deep, buried pain.
Control.
Always control. That was his only way to survive, his only way to reign.
He dressed in silence, choosing fresh clothes, feeling no remorse. Then he called for Saowalak.
The head maid arrived, her posture perfect, her eyes wary as she approached the powerful man.
“Get my Noi ready.”
She hesitated, a rare moment of defiance or concern. “Tonight, Master? He’s still…” she trailed off, unable to complete the thought, knowing the dangers.
His eyes met hers, flat, dead, unforgiving. The look silenced her.
She swallowed hard, her resolve crumbling. “At once,” she said, bowing her head.
Noi was reading in one of the opulent sitting rooms, trying to lose himself in the words, when Saowalak arrived. Her voice was gentler than usual, a subtle shift in her normally cold demeanor.
“Sweetheart, time for a bath.”
He blinked up at her, confused by the sudden attention, by the unusual warmth in her tone.
“Why?” he asked, a small voice.
She hesitated again, then placed a hand on his shoulder, a rare, almost comforting gesture. “Just be brave tonight.”
His stomach dropped instantly, a cold dread washing over him.
He didn’t understand why he needed to be brave, but the words chilled him.
But he obeyed, rising slowly.
The sun dipped below the edge of the sky, painting the world in hues of orange and purple.
The mansion dimmed into shadow, its vast rooms falling into darkness.
And Noi stood, trembling, outside a pair of tall lacquered double doors. He was clean, smelling of sweet soap. Dressed in fresh, soft silk pajamas again, feeling utterly exposed. The bunny was pressed to his chest, warm from his desperate grip, his only anchor.
The doors opened slowly, revealing the room beyond.
Saowalak gave him a soft push forward, a gentle shove into the unknown.
Inside, the bedroom was dark and low-lit, filled with a heavy, sweet perfume that clung to the air like smoke. Candlelight flickered everywhere, casting dancing shadows on the walls, making the room feel both intimate and menacing. The air was thick with expectation.
Three boys were sprawled on the bed—half-naked, flushed, breathing heavy. The air was thick with heat, sweat, moans.
At the center of it all sat Inthorn.
Shirtless.
Dark tattoos glowing in the candlelight.
Legs spread.
He looked like sin and power incarnate.
He pointed to the chair at the foot of the bed.
“Sit, Noi.”
Noi obeyed.
Every step felt like walking toward a blade.
He sat down, clutching the bunny like a shield.
Inthorn smiled.
“I want you to watch me tonight,” he said softly.
“Do not look away.”
Noi’s breath hitched.
Then Inthorn reached forward and grabbed one of the boys by the throat—pulling him in for a kiss. Brutal. Claiming. Tongue and teeth. The boy moaned into it, arching beneath the grip.
The moans turned to gasps.
Then to cries.
The bed creaked.
The rhythm began.
Inthorn began thrusting into the boy roughly—gripping his hips hard, skin slapping against skin, groaning low in his throat. Every movement was forceful, deliberate.
And still—
His onyx eyes never left Noi.
Not once.
Not even as he came.
Not even as he pulled out and dragged the second boy forward, flipping him onto all fours.
Noi gripped the bunny tighter, knuckles white.
His knees were locked together. His throat felt like glass.
But he didn’t look away.
He couldn’t.
Because he knew—that’s what Inthorn wanted.
That was the game.
That was the command.
Watch me. Witness me. Understand you are next.
When it ended, Inthorn leaned back on his throne of tangled limbs, breath steady, gaze satisfied.
The other boys collapsed beside him.
Noi was still frozen in the chair, unable to breathe.
And Inthorn whispered—
Just loud enough to be heard:
“Good boy.”
And Noi ran away.