CHAPTER 8
The gunshots still rang in Kawin Siriprasert’s ears, a phantom echo long after the dust had settled and the fires had died down in the ballroom.
His tactical boots crunched over the shattered marble and broken glass of the ballroom floor, past the mangled chandeliers and velvet masks soaked in blood.
A dozen members of his black-ops unit swept through the Thanawanich compound behind him, moving quickly and efficiently, rounding up corrupt diplomats, cartel middlemen, and warlords caught in the raid’s sudden, brutal blast.
But the main targets, the festering core of the Thanawanich family, had vanished like smoke. Pramote Thanawanich, the terrifying patriarch. Wimondevi, the cold "crimson orchid." Sarut, Suthida, Thanaboon, Kannika—all gone, escaped into the night.
And worst of all… Noi.
His baby brother had been there, wearing a delicate rabbit mask, clutched in someone else’s arms. Not just anyone’s, but Inthorn Thanawanich’s—a name drenched in blood across half of Southeast Asia, a name synonymous with terror.
Kawin gritted his teeth, a raw fury clenching his jaw, and stormed out to the black transport van waiting near the front gate. Inside, several restrained guests groaned faintly under blackout hoods, their wrists zip-tied, cuffed, and tagged for federal processing.
His best friend, Lt. Thirawat Mekprasert (or Wat), stood beside the van, adjusting his headset, his gun still holstered. He had tan skin, a buzz-cut, and sharp eyes that had seen too much, eyes that held the weariness of experience.
“Wat!” Kawin called out, his voice shaking with a desperate urgency that made Thirawat turn.
“Yeah?” Thirawat replied, sensing the raw emotion.
“I saw my brother in there.”
Thirawat froze, his movements stopping instantly. “What?” he asked, disbelief in his voice.
Kawin stepped closer, tearing off his mask, his face a mask of raw anguish and desperation. “It was him. I saw him with Inthorn Thanawanich. Dressed in velvet. He—he looked terrified, Wat. Like a captive. He tried to run toward me, but that beast caught him.”
Thirawat’s face turned pale, understanding the gravity of the situation. “Wasn’t he supposed to be with your uncle? At school?”
Kawin’s jaw tightened, anger and worry mixing. “He was. But now I don’t know where he’s been. Or for how long.”
Thirawat cursed under his breath, a low, frustrated sound, and grabbed his tablet. “We’ll pull every file we have on the Thanawanich estate. I’ll contact Internal Affairs—this isn’t just about trafficking anymore. This is personal.”
“I’m going to get him back,” Kawin whispered, a fierce vow, his determination burning bright.
“Then we’re doing this together,” Thirawat stated, his loyalty unwavering.
They bumped fists, a silent pact formed between them. And the war for Noi began.
Still, a seed of doubt lingered in Thirawat’s mind. He couldn’t shake the thought that perhaps Kawin, in the chaos and desperation of the raid, had seen something that wasn't truly there, a hallucination born from fear.
_____
Meanwhile, back at the estate…
Noi stirred, a soft, painful groan escaping his lips as he slowly woke up.
He blinked slowly, groggy and sore—his entire body aching in unfamiliar ways.
The soft sheets beneath him were tangled and damp, clinging uncomfortably to his skin.
The faint, cloying scent of blood and musk hung heavy in the air, a disturbing smell.
He shifted onto his side with a wince, a sharp, deep ache flaring between his thighs, a new, unsettling pain.
Noi whimpered softly and slowly sat up, the silk robe slipping from one shoulder, revealing pale skin. He looked down and his heart stopped, a sickening lurch in his chest.
Blood.
It was streaked faintly across the sheets. On the inside of his thighs. Dried, flaked, a cruel, damning red that told a horrifying story. His eyes widened in horror and his breath caught in his throat, a gasp of pure shock.
It had happened.
He had given himself to Inthorn.
The memories of the night before returned in fragmented, terrifying flashes: Inthorn’s possessive hands, tracing, claiming every inch of him.
His lips at Noi’s throat, pressing, sucking, leaving dark marks.
The low, growling promises whispered against his skin, promises of ownership.
The way Inthorn had breathed the word “mine” like a sacred, unbreakable vow before finally collapsing against him, his heavy weight consuming.
Noi’s eyes welled up with unshed tears, burning and blurring his vision.
He gripped his bunny plushie tightly, drawing it close for a fragile comfort, seeking warmth and innocence in the face of such darkness.
He climbed shakily out of bed, his legs trembling beneath him.
Each step was a fresh stab of pain, a reminder of what had occurred.
When he finally reached the bathroom, he caught sight of himself in the mirror.
His neck was covered in bruises, dark, tender marks against his pale skin, like ghost-kisses. His lips were slightly swollen, a sign of rough treatment.
But his eyes…
They were still soft. Still innocent, despite everything that had happened, despite the horror he had witnessed and experienced.
He stepped under the warm shower spray, letting the water wash over him, hoping it would cleanse him, wash away the grime and the memories.
But he knew, with a chilling certainty, that no amount of water could erase what had been taken from him.
Or what he had given.
He wasn’t sure which it had been anymore.
When he finally came down the stairs, wrapped in a fresh, soft robe, his wet hair clinging to his cheeks, he found Inthorn waiting.
Inthorn sat at the dining table, dressed sharply in black silk, rings gleaming on his fingers, his lips curved into a chillingly pleasant smile. He looked up, a subtle movement, and gestured with his fork, inviting Noi. “Good morning, baby.”
Noi didn’t speak. He simply moved to the chair beside Inthorn and sat down, clutching his bunny in his lap, his gaze fixed on the table, avoiding eye contact.
Inthorn leaned in, his heavy scent overwhelming Noi, and brushed a light kiss over Noi’s damp forehead. He whispered, his voice low and possessive, “You were perfect last night. Brave. Obedient.”
Noi flushed, a deep blush rising to his cheeks, and looked down, unable to meet Inthorn’s intense gaze.
Inthorn returned to his food, seemingly unfazed by Noi’s discomfort. “Eat, love. I have a surprise for you.”
Noi hesitated, his stomach churning with nerves, but he picked up his fork and began eating quietly—some toast, a few pieces of sweet papaya. His body felt sick with dread, but he obeyed. He always did.
After breakfast, Inthorn stood. “Come.”
Noi followed, silent, his bunny clutched close like a lifeline, his only sense of safety.
Dae Kittisak joined them as they walked to Inthorn’s office—a dim, tobacco-scented room lined with ancient books and an unsettling array of weapons displayed like art. The air was thick with a quiet, menacing power.
Inthorn opened a drawer and took out a small black box, placing it carefully on the desk directly in front of Noi. “For you.”
Noi blinked, confusion mixing with a flicker of morbid curiosity, wondering what could be inside. “What is it?”
Inthorn’s lips curled into something wicked, a chilling, knowing smile that promised darkness. “A reward. For last night.”
Noi hesitated. Then slowly reached out and opened the box, his fingers trembling.
And then he screamed.
Inside, resting on a silk-lined tray, was a severed tongue. It was freshly sliced, glistening faintly, a grotesque, preserved piece of flesh, still looking disturbingly alive.
Noi stumbled back, gasping for air, his eyes wide with unadulterated horror. Bile rose in his throat, a hot, metallic taste, threatening to make him sick.
Inthorn, however, only threw his head back and laughed. Madly. Loudly. The sound echoed through the office walls like thunder, a terrifying, joyful noise.
“Do you like it, my sweet?” he said between cackles, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement, watching Noi’s reaction. “The man who touched you. Last night. At the masquerade.”
Noi covered his mouth with his hand, trying desperately to stop the rising nausea, to hold back the scream building in his chest, to keep the horror from spilling out.
“I told you, didn’t I?” Inthorn purred, slowly walking toward him, his presence overwhelming, like a predator closing in. “I’d rip off the hands of anyone who touched what’s mine. But he touched more than your hand…”
He leaned in close, his voice a poisonous whisper against Noi’s ear, a chilling secret. “So I took his tongue.”
Noi broke. He ran. Tears streamed down his face as he bolted out of the room, his bunny clutched tightly in his arms, his feet barely touching the floor as he fled the horror, seeking any escape.
Behind him, Inthorn was still laughing, the sound following Noi down the hall. “I’ll kill the world if it lays a finger on you, my Noi!”
_____
FLASHBACK – The Night Before...
After Noi had finally fallen asleep in his arms, exhausted and broken, Inthorn had risen from the bed with a burning fire in his veins, a cold, focused fury driving him. He dressed slowly. Sharply. Coldly.
Dae met him in the hall, his face impassive, as always. “He’s in the surgical room,” Dae said calmly, knowing what was coming.
Inthorn nodded and descended to the basement, a place of shadows and hidden horrors.
He could hear the distant, desperate screams of ANIMALS, a chorus of misery.
Starved ANIMALS, howling for release, waiting for their gruesome meal.
Inthorn laughed, a low, satisfied sound, finding pleasure in their hunger.
The traitor—the masked man who had dared to kiss Noi’s hand—was chained tightly to the surgical table.
His eyes were wide with a terror that stretched his features, his mouth grotesquely gagged with cloth, fresh blood crusting down one side of his cheek from where he had bitten through the fabric in his struggles.
Inthorn didn’t speak. He simply pulled on black gloves, his movements precise and practiced, and picked up the shining scalpel.
“You know what you did,” he murmured, his voice flat and devoid of emotion, a chilling statement of fact.
The man tried desperately to scream, his muffled cries barely audible, just choked, desperate sounds from behind the gag, full of pain and fear.
Dae, always efficient, locked the door, sealing them inside, a private chamber of horrors.
The surgical light clicked on, bright and sterile, illuminating the horrifying scene with a harsh, unforgiving glare.
Inthorn began with the tongue. He pried the man’s mouth open, forcing it wide, then drove the scalpel down, slicing carefully—methodically—through muscle and sinew.
Blood flooded the man’s throat, a thick, coppery gush, as he thrashed violently against his restraints, his body convulsing in agony.
The sound was muffled. Wet. A desperate, gurgling choked howl, as he slowly died.
Then he moved on to the fingers. One by one.
Each joint was crushed under the pressure of Inthorn’s tools, bone grinding against bone, making sickening sounds.
Each nail was removed, peeled back from the quick, leaving raw, bleeding beds of flesh.
Each digit was then carefully severed, the bones snapping, and wrapped in silk for his own twisted keepsake, a trophy.
By the end of it, the man wasn’t a man anymore. He was a pulpy, broken mess, barely alive, his screams reduced to wet, rattling gasps, a horrifying warning of Inthorn's cruelty.
Just a gruesome reminder. A terrifying warning.
And Inthorn laughed, a deep, satisfied sound, while he did it, enjoying every moment.
_____
Back in the present…
Inthorn stood at the window of his second office, watching the sun’s last light bleed across the vast Thanawanich estate, painting the sky in hues of orange and red, a beautiful yet dark reflection of his own nature.
He saw a shadow flicker in the corner of his eye. Dae.
“Something wrong?” Dae asked, his voice quiet, observing his master.
Inthorn’s voice was distant, his gaze fixed on the dying light. “He cried.”
“He’s soft,” Dae stated, a simple observation.
“He’s mine,” Inthorn whispered, his eyes dark and possessive, a chilling vow. “And I’ll carve my name into anyone who touches him.”