KNOT.

Chapter 5 - Heat.

After breakfast ended, the atmosphere in the Thewathitirat household did not return to normal. The silence remained suspended along the corridors, on the staircase, in the lines of late-morning sunlight falling through the tall windows onto the pale stone floor. It was as though even the house itself understood that something had shifted for good. There was no light conversation that morning, no soft laughter at the dining table, no passing discussion of work, schedules, or the small everyday matters of a great house. Everything was too quiet, and that quiet only made what had happened feel heavier with every passing moment.

 

Nakhun left the dining room without a word. His footsteps were as steady as ever. His back remained straight. And though his face revealed very little, he still looked, to everyone else, like the same Nakhun as always the eldest son of the Thewathitirat family, the True Alpha raised to inherit everything from his father, the man who was supposed to be composed, firm, and always in control But once the door of a smaller room inside closed behind him, that tall figure stood motionless in the middle of it for a long moment, as if the instant no one was watching, he no longer had the strength to keep holding himself together in quite the same way.

 

The sitting room was still and quiet. Pale curtains stirred faintly in the air-conditioning. The soft scent of wood and the floral notes from the fresh arrangement the maids had placed there that morning should have felt calming. But for Nakhun, it did nothing. He lifted a hand to his forehead and closed his eyes. Phatsa's image refused to fade. The warmth of his lips. Those bright, stubborn eyes that were infuriating and clear all at once. That cool scent of rain is impossibly lovely. Lovely enough that he had truly been unable to stop himself.

 

At the thought, Nakhun's breathing caught. His hand clenched without his knowing it, as though he were trying to suppress something inside his chest. But the more he forced it down, the clearer it became. He regretted it. He truly did. Not because his father had shouted at him. Not because of the family's reputation. But because he had bitten Phatsa, someone like him should never have made that kind of mistake.

 

The door opened softly behind him, and Khamphirada stepped inside. She did not speak at once. She looked at her son for a moment. Nakhun was still standing with his back to her, his shadow falling long across the floor beside the window. His broad shoulders still looked as strong as ever, but to a mother's eyes, it was obvious at once that this was no longer the calm stillness she knew. It was the stillness of someone barely holding himself together. Khamphirada walked toward him quietly.

 

'Nakhun."

 

Her voice was so soft it seemed afraid that if it rose even a little louder, whatever her son was trying to contain would break. Nakhun slowly opened his eyes and turned to look at her. The moment she saw his face, she knew he truly was not all right. Those dark, steady eyes that were normally so sharp, so decisive, now carried far too much inside them: confusion, sorrow, guilt, all of it packed too tightly beneath the surface for someone who had been taught his whole life to be strong. His lips moved slightly before his voice finally came, lower than usual.

 

"I'm sorry."

 

Khamphirada paused. Nakhun lowered his gaze as if even looking at his mother directly was difficult right now.

 

"I'm sorry I disappointed you"

 

The words were quiet, but they landed with enough weight to hurt.

 

"I'm sorry I disappointed everyone."

 

His voice frayed in the second sentence, however slightly. He had tried to hold it steady, but it was not enough. Khamphirada stood there only an instant before stepping forward and pulling him into her arms. Her embrace was not especially tight, but it was impossibly steady. It was the same embrace Nakhun had known since childhood, the kind that made even a grown son all tall and formidable feel, for a fleeting moment, like nothing more than his mother's child. And the instant she held him like that, he seemed to lose the strength to keep pretending.

 

Those broad shoulders that were always held straight softened at last. He bowed his head near her shoulder in silence, his breathing beginning to shake little by little until at last the tears came without him quite realising it. Khamphirada stroked his hair gently, not hurrying him, not questioning him, not scolding him. She let him cry. She let the quiet of the room hold the weight of what he was carrying until it could come out on its own.

 

Nakhun was not someone who cried easily. The older he grew, the less anyone ever saw it at all. And so when he did, Khamphirada knew that whatever he was feeling must have gone far deeper than anyone else could see.

 

"I didn't mean to..." He spoke into the hush between broken breaths, his voice roughened, "I couldn't stop myself"

 

He shut his eyes tightly, as if the memory were still too vivid.

 

"He smelled so good."

 

That sentence came softer than anything else, and it made Khamphirada go still for a moment. Nakhun lowered his head further, guilt sharpening in him as he spoke.

 

"I didn't want it to happen like this. I truly didn't mean to."

 

Khamphirada continued smoothing his hair. She was still shocked, still worried about everything that would follow, but seeing him like this made one thing clear: this was not the time for blame.

 

"I know," she said gently.

 

He remained silent, listening. After a moment, she looked at his face and spoke as though thinking aloud through the pieces of what had happened.

 

"Perhaps... that boy is your soulmate."

 

Nakhun looked up at her immediately. Khamphirada lifted a hand and brushed the tears from the corner of his eye.

 

"You've always had control over yourself."

 

"Your emotions. Your instincts. Even your rut." She paused. "If he weren't truly important to your body and your nature, it wouldn't have slipped this far so easily."

 

The room fell quiet again. The word soulmate did not make everything lighter. But it gave what had happened a shape that was not quite so cruel. At the very least, it meant this was not simply failure. Not merely a disgraceful lapse of control. It might have been something deeper than that. Older than that. Harder to resist than anyone would want to admit. 

 

Khamphirada gently held his face and asked, "And where is that boy now?"

 

Nakhun hesitated, then answered honestly. "I sent Sila to watch him."

 

She nodded faintly. "That was the right thing to do."

 

But Nakhun did not look any calmer. He stepped out of her arms slightly and pressed a hand against his chest without thinking. His face was still taut. Crying had not eased the strange sensation inside him nearly enough.

 

"I don't know when the bond will start getting worse." His voice remained low, but the worry in it was clearer now. "I feel strange too."

 

He frowned, displeased at how little he could explain what was happening inside his own body.

 

"It doesn't feel like sickness. But it isn't normal either"

 

Khamphirada looked at him in silence, and something cold moved through her. Because she knew well enough what could follow a newly formed bond, especially if the two people who shared it were not together as they should be, it was never something small. And if Nakhun, her son, who was so strong and so controlled, already felt strange, then what must that boy be going through? She touched his arm gently.

 

"We need to find him as quickly as possible."

 

Nakhun closed his eyes for a moment, then nodded once. He already knew. He had known from the moment Phatsa walked out of the house. From now on, nothing about this would be simple. 

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Phatsa could not stand being in his room for long before he came back out again. The truth was, he did not especially want to go anywhere. It was simply that staying inside his room had become unbearable. The four walls that had always been familiar now felt strangely close. 

 

The air was not hot, but his body seemed unable to find any balance. Too cold one moment, too warm the next. Hollow somehow, as if something had gone missing from the centre of his chest, even though everything around him looked the same as it always had. So he left the house without giving it much thought. And his destination was hardly a mystery.

 

At that hour, Ongsa's café was still quiet—pale daylight filtered through the large windows, spilling over the light wooden floor. The scent of freshly roasted coffee and warm pastries drifted through the air. Normally, it was exactly the kind of place Phatsa loved. On some days, merely sitting there in silence was enough to make it feel as though half the burden in his chest had lifted, but not today. Today, even sitting in his usual corner did nothing to ease the strange sensations moving through his body. 

 

He sat with his arms folded for a while before a strange chill slowly began to climb up beneath his skin again. It was not the cold of the room. Not the kind of chill that came from air conditioning, it was deeper than that. Like a cold wind moving through his bones, and it made him frown and feel his own arms lightly

 

From behind the counter, Ongse looked up. “What's wrong?”

 

Phatsa shook his head, though his face was anything but normal. Ongsa watched him a moment, then took his own jacket from the back and tossed it over.

 

“Use this first?"

 

Phatsa caught it and put it on without complaint. But the instant the fabric settled over his shoulders and arms, he stopped Ongsa's scent. It wasn't unpleasant, it wasn't dirty. On the contrary, it smelled very clean, soft fabric, faint soap, and a trace of sun from freshly washed clothes. Normally, it would have been the kind of scent that felt comfortable in the quiet, steady way Ongsa always did, but now, it made Phatsa's head spin.

 

He frowned harder and pulled the jacket back off almost at once, enough to make Ongsa raise a brow.

 

"Oh?"

 

Phatsa laid it across his lap for a second, almost apologetically, before giving it back.

 

"I can't."

 

Ongsa took it, confused.

 

"Why?"

 

Phatsa pressed his lips together before answering in a quieter voice, like someone who really did not want to admit how strange he sounded.

 

"The smell makes me dizzy."

 

Ongsa looked at the jacket, then back at him.

 

"I just had it cleaned. It shouldn't smell bad"

Phatsa let out a humourless little laugh.

 

"I didn't say it smelled bad."

 

"Then?"

 

He hesitated a beat, then answered evasively.

 

"It's just... not the smell I want."

 

That sentence made Ongsa pause. It sounded strange. Strange in exactly the kind of way that made the person hearing it begin to feel uneasy.

 

Before Ongsa could ask more, Phatsa rushed to cover it.

 

"Get me a hot coffee."

 

Ongsa did not press. He turned and made it quickly. Steam rose from the cup in thin white streams. The rich smell of coffee beans should have helped, and Phatsa hoped it would. He lifted the cup and drank slowly, letting the warmth slide down his throat and into his chest, hoping it would drive out the peculiar cold in his body.

 

It did not help at all. If anything, the longer he sat there, the deeper the cold seemed to sink, like wind moving beneath his skin. At the same time, another kind of heat began to gather low in the centre of his body, slowly and disturbingly. Phatsa went completely still. At first, he told himself he was merely unwell. But as the sensation sharpened, he found he could no longer sit still. It was not just cold. It was not just heat. It was some formless need that he could not name, and it made him so irritated that he wanted to crush something in his hand. Damn it.

 

He felt himself responding in a way that only made his whole body tense harder. He set the coffee down more sharply than he meant to. Ongsa, who had been watching him the whole time, looked over at once.

 

"Phatsa."

 

Phatsa drew in a deep breath and stood immediately.

 

"I'm going home."

 

Ongsa frowned. "Wait-"

 

"I can't sit here anymore."

 

He answered too quickly, his face tight with the frustration of someone who still did not understand what was happening to him. And before Ongsa could stop him or ask more, Phatsa was already gone. Ongsa watched him leave, his heart slowly sinking.

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Not far from the café, another car sat parked across the street. Sila leaned back behind the wheel, his composed face revealing almost nothing at all, his eyes fixed on the café door. The moment Phatsa stepped outside, Sila picked up his phone and sent a short message to his people without wasting time.

 

He did not interfere. He did not approach. He merely watched from a distance, exactly as Nakhun had ordered. And the longer he watched, the more certain he became that everything was beginning to go wrong far

faster than it should have

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By the time Phatsa got home, he was even more irritated than before. He did not understand himself. He did not understand why he was cold. He did not understand why his body kept running hot and cold. He did not understand why his heart leapt at the slightest thing. And most infuriating of all, he wanted Nakhun's scent desperately. He wanted it so badly that it made him angry with himself.

 

He paced his room like someone who could not find a place to put himself. He smelled his pillow. He smelled the blanket. He opened his wardrobe, his drawers, pulled out shirt after shirt with no real reason except the irrational hope that something, anything, might somehow replace that missing scent.

 

But nothing did. The smell of soap. Fabric softener. Sun-dried cotton. His usual body wash. Everything was irritating because none of it was the same. Not the warm whiskey in oak. Not the faint smoke, not Nakhun.

 

Grinding his teeth, Phatsa finally dropped down on the edge of his bed and pressed a hand hard against his forehead.

 

"What the hell is wrong with me?"

 

His breathing was still uneven. The emptiness in his chest only grew clearer the more he tried not to think about it. Then, as his hand brushed the heap of clothes beside him, he found one shirt. It was the old one he had worn back from Nakhun's house.

 

Phatsa stilled for a second before lifting it slowly, almost carefully, as though afraid that if he moved too abruptly, whatever remained on it might vanish. And the instant he drew it close to his chest, the scent touched him. Very faint. But still there.

 

Phatsa closed his eyes immediately. Nakhun's scent really clung to it. Barely, so faint he almost had to press it close to catch it, but for him, in that moment, it was enough to make his whole body loosen in a single breath, as though something that had been missing for hours had just been returned, if only in a trace.

 

He pulled the shirt into his arms at once. As if afraid someone might take it. As if afraid the scent would disappear again. He buried his face in the fabric and inhaled deeply, over and over, without even realising how desperate it had become. The irritation from earlier eased only slightly. The emptiness in his chest did not disappear, but it softened just enough that he nearly wanted to cry from the relief.

 

It was infuriating. Infuriating that he had to sit there clutching a strange man's shirt like this. Infuriating that even a fading trace of that scent could still help. And even more infuriating was that he would not let go of it at all. In the end, all he could do was hold it.

Hold it tight. Breathe it in like something precious. And eventually drift into sleep with it still clutched against him.

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Across the city, Nakhun was no less agitated. Everything in the world felt wrong against his skin. The shirt on his body clung too closely, enough to irritate him. The fabric that normally never bothered him now rasped against his skin until it became intolerable. The room was not hot, but his body felt strangely stifled, as though something was pressing beneath his skin all the time.

 

At last, he tore the shirt off with sharp force. A few buttons nearly came loose under his hand. He threw it aside carelessly and stood in the middle of the room bare-chested, breathing a little harder than usual. His dark eyes were still, yes, but the stillness in them was stretched so tight it seemed capable of breaking at any moment. Even the flowers in the room, the ones the maids had arranged there that morning, were enough to make him feel sick.

 

Too sweet. Too soft. Not what he wanted. Not the scent of rain. From where he sat not far away, Nakhin let out a quiet sigh and rubbed a hand over his face.

 

"Go to him."

 

Nakhun did not even look at him.

 

"No."

 

Nakhin gave a short laugh, uncertain whether he was more amused or exasperated.

 

"You're really going to out-stubborn him?"

 

Nakhun remained where he was and answered in the same flat tone,

 

"That boy has to come back on his own."

 

Nakhin watched him for a moment, then muttered under his breath like a man convinced the universe had no mercy for bystanders.

 

"I think you're just as stubborn as he is."

 

The room fell silent once more. 

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One of them slept clutching a shirt and breathing in the scent he craved. The other stood bare-chested in the middle of his room, irritated, restless, and waiting with equal stubbornness. Neither of them was willing to move first. Neither of them was willing to yield first. Even though their bodies were already telling the same truth, this separation was nowhere near as easy as either of them had tried to pretend.

 

Phatsa jolted awake in the middle of the night. The room was dark and too quiet, lit only by a dim line of light slipping through the curtains from outside. His breathing was heavy and broken, like someone who had only just surfaced after nearly drowning. His heart hammered so hard it felt as though it might break through his ribs. The shirt was still in his arms. He pulled it immediately to his face like someone desperately searching for something necessary to survive. But the moment he inhaled, he froze. Nakhun's scent had faded.

 

It was still there. But only barely. Too little now to soothe anything. The emptiness in his chest sharpened at once. It was no longer merely longing, nor merely frustration. It was a hunger too deep to explain, as though every part of his body were crying out for something all at once, louder and louder, until it became almost unbearable. He clutched the shirt tighter, even though he already knew it could only help for so long. Strange heat raced beneath his skin. His breathing worsened. His fingers trembled. Every sensation became unnaturally sharp. At last, he understood what Ongsa had meant.

 

Heat.

 

The moment the word formed in his mind, his heart sank even lower. He hated it. Hated the feeling of no longer belonging entirely to himself. Hated the way his own body seemed to be betraying him so brazenly. His mind still fought it, but everything else in him was pulling in another direction. Phatsa clenched his teeth and forced himself out of bed. 

 

He walked into the bathroom on unsteady legs and flicked on the light, squinting against the brightness. When he looked up in the mirror, he almost did not want to keep looking. His face was flushed. His eyes were blurred. His pale hair was dishevelled. His breathing was so uneven it looked like he had run miles. He did not look like himself at all. 

 

He gripped the edge of the sink tightly and bowed his head, trying to breathe deeply, trying to tell himself to calm down, trying to remind himself that this was only an episode, that it would pass. But the more he fought, the worse it became. The harder he tried to resist, the more his body refused to obey. And that made him want to cry because this was not a desire born of his own heart. Not something he had chosen. Not something he wanted to become. And yet his body demanded it mercilessly.

 

Phatsa shut his eyes hard. His back trembled. He felt no better than an animal caught in mating season, and the thought of that humiliation made his throat tighten painfully.

 

"No.."

 

The word came out hoarse and frayed, barely like his own voice. Tears began to fall before he could stop them. He did not want this. He did not want to be weak like this. Did not want his body to become something beyond his own control, and yet no matter how much he resisted, no matter how fiercely he fought it, His body still refused to listen.

 

Phatsa struggled to maintain his composure amidst all the turmoil, trying to restrain himself, trying to regain his composure, trying to get through it without thinking beyond that. But everything only grew heavier and heavier until his whole body began to grow weak. Phatsa knew what he had to do, but it wasn't what he wanted to do. His slender fingers slowly massaged the hardened shaft, unable to control himself. It was burning and constricting painfully. As his fingers moved and stroked, the pain seemed to subside, replaced by a tingling sensation, yet it couldn't quell the desire.

 

The frantic stroking didn't lessen the craving at all. Phatsa cried out; he was in too much pain to feel good. The tingling was overwhelming, but it wasn't over; it couldn't end. The torment still gnawed at him completely. And then, something shocked him almost to the point of madness. His untouched rear passage was overflowing with a thick, clear fluid. Phatsa touched it lightly and arched his back with a shiver of pleasure, like an electric current running through his body. The rear passage responded to him so well; it was warm and responding intensely. Just the touch of his slender fingers sank in, and the passage contracted wildly, as if about to climax, but it wouldn't.

 

He tried to hold himself together through the worst of it, to stay conscious, to survive the episode. But everything only grew more intense until he was left with nothing but distress, exhaustion, and that terrible ache for relief he could not quite reach. At some point, the world around him began to blur.

 

The sounds in the room drifted farther away. Even the strength in his grip on the sink gradually failed. And at last, Phatsa no longer had enough strength left to keep fighting. His body crumpled slowly, and his consciousness went out all at once. What remained was only the brightly lit bathroom, the silence, and the old shirt lying not far from where he fell, still holding the last faint trace of Nakhun's scent.

 

Ongsa came to check on Phatsa again the next morning. At first, he had only meant to make sure the stubborn boy was all right. Phatsa had been unnaturally silent all afternoon and into the night, not answering messages, not reading Line, not picking up the phone. Normally, even if annoyed, he would at least send something back, even if it was only an irritated emoji. Silence like this made Ongsa uneasy.

 

When he unlocked the house and stepped inside, the stillness made his heart sink even further. The whole place was too quiet. No television. No footsteps. Not even the faint sound of movement from a room, the way there usually was when Phatsa was home alone.

 

"Phatsa?"

 

Ongsa called as he moved deeper into the house. No answer. He called again, louder this time, but what came back was only silence so oppressive it made his skin tighten. At last, he hurried toward Phatsa's room and pushed the door open. The sight inside made his heart drop straight into his feet. Phatsa was unconscious on the bathroom floor. The door was open. The white light overhead was far too bright, making the whole scene even more alarming. His clothes were in disarray, his pale hair damp with sweat and stuck to his forehead, his face flushed a disturbing red. His breathing came in hard bursts, as though his body were struggling against something invisible.

 

"Phatsal"

 

Ongsa dropped to his knees beside him, and the instant his hand touched Phatsa's arm, he froze. He was burning. Not merely warm burning. Ongsa touched his forehead again in disbelief, and cold fear shot down his spine. He was a beta; he could not smell Phatsa's pheromones. But he did not need to. What he saw was already enough.

 

His body temperature was dangerously high. He was breathing hard. Sweat covered him, though he had done nothing. His body trembled in small waves, and he was barely conscious.

 

Heat.

The word appeared in Ongsa's mind at once, making his hands go cold. He pulled Phatsa up just enough to hold him against himself and lightly tapped his cheek, panic sharpening in every movement.

 

"Phatsa. Wake up... Phatsa, can you hear me?"

 

Phatsa frowned in that half-conscious state, breathing still ragged, his chest rising and falling with too much force. The mouth that was usually so quick to argue now only parted slightly, like someone muttering from inside a nightmare.

 

"Mm.."

 

The sound was hoarse and faint. Ongsa swallowed hard, then tried again, even though he already knew the answer mattered too much.

 

"Who bit you?"

 

Phatsa, his head weak like someone who barely had the strength, still refused to surrender easily. His breathing grew more uneven as he murmured something too quiet to catch. Ongsa bent closer to hear....

 

"No, no"

 

"Phatsa. Talk to me."

 

“I don't know..."

 

Even now, with his consciousness nearly gone, Phatsa's stubbornness was intact enough to make Ongsa want to cry. He looked at that flushed face with a mix of fear, helplessness, and desperate affection.

 

"You're still going to be stubborn even now...?"

 

Phatsa did not answer. He only kept breathing hard, his brow drawn tight, his body tensing in waves as though he were burning and freezing at once. Tears had gathered at the corners of his eyes. Even half gone, he was still suffering. All Ongsa could do was hold him more tightly and fumble for his phone with hands beginning to shake.

 

He did not even know what he should do first. Call an ambulance? Call someone else? Or drag Phatsa straight back to the dangerous man who had done this to him? But one thing he knew for certain was that if he left it like this, it would only get worse.

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Elsewhere, Sila was still watching from not far outside the house. Since Phatsa had gone home the day before and all the way into the next morning, Sila had barely seen him come out at all. The house was unnaturally quiet. The bedroom lights had remained on for a while, then gone dark and too much time had passed. Even for someone trained not to overreact, he had begun to feel wrong. Then, not long after, he saw Ongsa hurry inside.

 

Everything stayed quiet for some time after that. Until movement began flickering inside the house. The curtains shifted. A shadow moved too quickly. And after that, Sila heard a sound carrying faintly through the window, not every word, but enough. Ongsa's voice. Not his normal voice. The voice of someone who was genuinely frightened.

 

Sila did not waste a second. He took out his phone and called at once. The line was picked up almost immediately, as though the person on the other end had been waiting with the phone already in hand.

 

"Yes."

Nakhun's voice was still calm, though lower than usual. Sila reported briefly and precisely, as always.

 

"Khun Phatsa hasn't come out of the room at all."

 

Silence on the other end. So Sila continued.

 

"Khun Ongsa is inside the house now."

 

He paused, then delivered the final line in the same controlled tone, though it had sharpened slightly.

 

"It seems his condition is bad, sir. I can hear Khun Ongsa calling for him."

 

This time, the silence on the other end lasted longer. Long enough for Sila to realise that the man listening was changing his mind about something. At last, Nakhun spoke again, slower, lower, and cold enough to leave no room for argument.

 

"I'm going myself."

 

'Sila paused only briefly before answering at once ", Yes, sir."

 

The line went dead. And in that moment, Sila knew the situation had moved into another stage entirely. Because if it had reached the point where Nakhun had decided to come in person, then the bonded pair were already well past the stage where waiting any longer was safe.