Chapter - 4
1014 Words
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The dim glow of neon lights flickered against the dark walls of Inferno, Bangkok's most exclusive underground club. The bass from the music pulsed like a heartbeat, mixing with the chatter of high-profile guests and the clinking of expensive whiskey glasses. The air smelled of smoke, leather, and temptation-everything that defined Vegas Theerapanyakul.
A Dominant Alpha.
Vegas didn't just own this space-he commanded it.
Seated in his usual booth, his presence was magnetic, impossible to ignore. His black shirt, unbuttoned just enough to tease a glimpse of his toned chest, clung to his lean, powerful frame. The silver rings on his fingers glinted under the low lights as he toyed lazily with the rim of his whiskey glass. To the untrained eye, he might've looked relaxed-almost indifferent.
But that would be a mistake.
Because behind that deceptively lazy posture, Vegas was always watching.
Every whispered deal.
Every stolen glance.
Every lie hidden behind fake smiles.
Nothing escaped Vegas.
Across from him, Somchai-the man foolish enough to betray him-trembled, trying and failing to maintain his composure. His hands clenched in his lap, his eyes darting nervously toward the exit, as if considering whether he could make a run for it.
Vegas almost smirked. Pathetic.
Instead, he leaned back, his long legs stretching out comfortably, completely at ease. One arm draped over the leather seat beside him, exuding the kind of effortless dominance that made men cower and women fall to their knees.
Finally, he spoke, his voice smooth and slow, laced with a quiet danger that sent a chill down Somchai's spine.
"Tell me, Somchai..." Vegas drawled, his gaze unwavering. "Did you really think you could steal from me and walk away unscathed?"
Somchai gulped, sweat forming at his temples.
"Kh-khun. Vegas, I swear, it was a misunderstanding! I-"
Vegas didn't let him finish.
Without a word, he reached for the knife beside his glass. He didn't raise it, didn't even point it at the man. He simply began spinning it between his fingers, the sharp edge gleaming in the dim light.
The message was clear.
Somchai's throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his pulse visibly pounding in his neck.
Vegas tilted his head, feigning curiosity. "Misunderstanding?" His voice was almost amused, but the glint in his eyes held something darker. "That's funny, because the numbers don't lie."
The air around them thickened, the weight of impending doom settling like a noose around Somchai's neck.
The club carried on-music, laughter, indulgence-but here, in this small corner, a man's life was balancing on the edge of a knife.
"Please," Somchai begged, his voice raw with desperation. "I'll pay you back. I swear-"
Vegas finally stilled his fingers, setting the knife down with a soft clink against the polished wood of the table.
He leaned forward, invading Somchai's space, his breath ghosting over the trembling man's skin. His lips curled into a smirk, but his voice-low and commanding-sent an unmistakable warning.
"You will."
A pause.
Then, softer-more lethal. "With interest."
Vegas leaned back once more, taking his whiskey glass and bringing it to his lips for a slow, measured sip. He didn't even glance up as Somchai scrambled out of his seat, practically tripping over himself in his rush to flee.
Pathetic.
Vegas sighed, his gaze shifting to the dance floor where bodies moved to the beat, lost in a haze of pleasure and alcohol.
It was always the same. Business deals, threats, power plays. A never-ending cycle that didn't excite him anymore.
His phone vibrated.
Vegas flicked through the messages, expecting the usual-a deal that needed closing, a shipment that had arrived, a problem that needed to be erased.
But then-his sharp eyes landed on something unexpected.
A message from his father.
Gun Theerapanyakul:
"Come home. Right now."
Vegas stared at the screen, his jaw tightening ever so slightly.
His father never called him home unless it was serious.
Something was happening.
Something big.
With a slow exhale, Vegas downed the rest of his whiskey, placed the glass back onto the table, and stood up.
It was time to go home.
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Inside the pastry shop, the scent of freshly baked bread and vanilla filled the air. Pete stood behind the counter, carefully decorating a batch of cupcakes. His fingers moved with ease, piping soft swirls of frosting onto each one, adding a final touch-a tiny piece of chocolate on top.
It was late, almost closing time, but Pete never minded the quiet hours. They gave him time to unwind, to enjoy his little world of pastries and peace.
The small bell above the door suddenly chimed.
Pete looked up, surprised.
Meanwhile...
Macau Theerapanyakul was exhausted.
It had been a long, frustrating day-group projects that dragged on forever, an exam that made his head hurt, and worst of all, he had skipped lunch in all the chaos. Now, it was way past dinner, and his stomach felt like it was eating itself.
Slouched in the backseat of his car, Macau whined dramatically, rubbing his face.
"Ugh, I need food now," he groaned, kicking his feet against the seat like an impatient child.
His driver, an older beta who was very used to Macau's antics, glanced at him through the rearview mirror. "We're almost home, young master."
Macau pouted. "That's too far," he muttered, resting his head against the cool window. But then-something caught his eye.
A pastry shop.
It wasn't a big, fancy place like the high-end bakeries in luxury malls. No, this was small, warm, and inviting. The soft golden glow from inside made it look like a cozy little haven in the middle of the city's cold night air. Through the glass, he spotted shelves filled with croissants, cakes, and cookies, all neatly arranged, just waiting to be devoured.
His stomach growled. Loudly.
That was it. He wasn't waiting until he got home.
"Stop the car!" Macau shouted, already reaching for the door handle.
The driver barely had time to react before the omega hopped out and marched toward the shop, his oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder as he hurried inside.
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- Writer
