Crimson Vows: The Blood By Which We're Bound

Imagine being handed a life you never asked for, with no receipt, no return policy, and a gun to your head if you complain. That was Kirin Theerakul’s current situation. The Vongsawat estate did not look like a prison. Prisons were honest about what they were. This place was worse. Marble floors that echoed too loud, ceilings high enough to swallow sound, and not a single mirror in sight. It was the kind of house that wore luxury like a threat. Kirin stood in the middle of the main hall, suitcase in hand. The Don’s men had not bothered with handcuffs like the prisoner the collateral arrangement claimed him to be. Kind of Insulting, really. As if they didn't expected him to run. Not like there was anywhere left to run to, anyway. Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. The kind that knew they owned the ground they walked on. Rakkhan Vongsawat stepped out of the shadows like he had been carved from them. Black shirt, black slacks, black expression. At twenty-five, the Don's heir looked like a man who had never smiled and did not plan to start. His eyes dragged over Kirin once, slow, assessing. Then he spoke. “Did they run out of leashes, or did you bite through yours?” His voice was low. Flat. Amused in the way a knife might be amused before it cut. Kirin’s jaw tightened. He had imagined this moment a hundred different ways. None of them had involved being compared to a captive mutt. He met Khan’s gaze and held it. Hazel against black. Fire staring down ice and daring it to crack. The air between them went still, like the second before a storm decided which city to level. This was not a meeting. This was a declaration of war. Khan’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “Rules are simple, Theerakul. Simply do as you're told. And do well to you remember you’re not a guest here.” He turned, already done with him. “Try not to die too soon. It would be inconvenient, especially for someone of your stature.” He walked off without waiting for an answer, every step unhurried. Kirin stared at his retreating back, hands curled into fists at his sides. Three months. That was the sentence. And it started now. SEVEN DAYS AGO. LONDON — CHELSEA HOUSE, WEST LONDON. The studio smelled like oil paint and Earl Grey gone cold. Afternoon light poured through the tall windows, gilding the half-finished canvas in front of him. An orchard garden, the kind that only existed in memory. Wild jasmine tangled under plum trees, and if he got the light right, you could almost smell it. Kirin dabbed a final touch of white to a blossom, tilted his head, and decided it was done. For now. Paintings were like people. You could keep fixing them forever and still miss something. He had been told he was a prodigy since he was twelve, but Aurelian Universal did not sign him for his brushwork. They signed him for his face. The door opened without a knock. “Khun Kirin,” Saen said, stepping inside with an iPad cradled in one arm. Bodyguard on paper. Assistant in practice. Older brother in all the ways that mattered. Saen had followed him from Bangkok to London almost five years ago — four years at University of the Arts London, and the year after when Kirin stayed to finish the modeling contracts Aurelian had lined up and the exhibitions he refused to cancel. Saen had since mastered the art of running Kirin’s life while pretending he did not. “Update.” Kirin did not turn from the canvas, just wiped his hands on a rag streaked with green and gold. “Go on, P’Sae.” Saen tapped the tablet. “The Chelsea house has several potential buyers lined up since the advertisement was put up. First viewings start next week. I already have someone to handle everything from here to avoid any inconveniences following your departure. Staff salaries cleared for three months. Everyone has new employment. Lady Sirin had Khun Mali from Sathaworn Law and a London-based HR consultancy handle the placements so no one gets left behind.” “Aurelian sent the revised schedule,” Saen continued. “No more England projects. They are shifting you to Thailand and the surrounding region. Vietnam, Singapore, Malaysia. ‘Maximize regional presence while you are home.’ You know how they operates.” Kirin did. Aurelian Universal was not an agency so much as a tide. Once you were in, you did not chase campaigns or covers. They found you. Models, designers, photographers. Aurelian scouted them, built them, and dropped them into the exact market where they would burn brightest. Kirin had been scouted at seventeen. By nineteen, his face was on billboards from Milan to Seoul. The art was his. The modeling paid for the studio. “And our return?” Kirin asked, finally turning. “Four days,” Saen said. “First-class tickets are confirmed. British Airways. Khun Ren said he would pick you up from Suvarnabhumi Airport himself.” Kirin smiled, small and real. “Good. I miss him nagging at me all day. Besides you, that is. Now you two can reunite your grandpa tag team.” Saen’s mouth twitched. For him, that was as close to laughter as he would allow himself. THREE DAYS LATER. THAILAND — BANGKOK, SUVARNABHUMI AIRPORT The car waiting at Suvarnabhumi was not Ren’s silver Aston. It was a black sedan, tinted to blindness, with a driver who bowed too low to be family. “Third Young Master,” the man said. Kirin slid into the backseat beside Saen, frowning. “Where is Ren? He was supposed to be the one to come and get me.” “Urgent meeting, Third Young Master. Khun Anurak and Lady Sirin are with the Don. At the mansion.” Saen and Kirin exchanged a look. The Don did not do house calls. Not for meetings, not for dinner, not for anything short of war.