Reborn From Flames: His Secret Triplets

The darkness in the room was heavy. It pressed down on Alisson Ford's chest until she could not pull in a full breath.

Her eyelids felt like they were sewn shut with lead thread. When she finally forced them open, the room spun in violent, sickening circles.

A wave of nausea hit her stomach. She swallowed hard, tasting the metallic bitterness of a strong chemical drug at the back of her throat.

She tried to push herself up. Her elbows gave out instantly. Her limbs felt like they were made of wet sand, completely devoid of strength.

Cold air brushed against her bare skin.

Alisson reached down with trembling, numb fingers. The expensive, custom-made silk gown she had worn hours ago was gone. It was torn into jagged strips, barely hanging off her shoulders.

Her breath caught in her throat. Her lungs burned.

A fragmented memory slammed into her pounding head. The charity gala. The bright lights. Her adoptive sister, Bella, stepping forward with a perfectly manicured hand, offering her a crystal flute of champagne.

"Drink up, Ali. To family," Bella had said, her smile wide and artificial.

Then, the dizziness. The sudden inability to stand. The hands dragging her away.

Her stomach convulsed. She curled into a tight ball on the mattress.

They sold her.

Her adoptive father, Iman Lucas, needed funding for his failing company. He needed the investment from Quentin, a man old enough to be her grandfather. A man who smelled of cheap cigars and stale whiskey. They had drugged her and offered her up on a silver platter to secure a corporate hostile takeover.

Suddenly, the mattress shifted.

A heavy, rhythmic sound of breathing came from the empty space beside her.

Alisson's blood turned to ice. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard it physically hurt.

Before she could move, a massive, scorching hot arm reached out from the pitch-black void. It clamped down on her waist like a steel vice.

The sheer weight of the arm knocked the breath out of her.

Alisson thrashed. She kicked her legs and clawed at the heavy sheets, panic tearing through her vocal cords.

"Stop moving."

The voice was a low, dangerous rumble. It vibrated against her bare shoulder. It was fluent, unaccented American English, dripping with raw dominance and dark desire.

Alisson froze.

This was not Quentin.

The air around her did not smell like stale whiskey. It smelled of crisp winter air, expensive cedarwood cologne, and pure, intoxicating male heat.

She opened her mouth to scream for help.

The man shifted his weight, pinning her completely flat against the soft mattress. His large hand tangled in her hair, pulling her head back just enough to expose her neck.

His mouth crashed down on hers.

It was not a gentle kiss. It was a brutal, absolute claiming. He swallowed her scream, his lips hot and demanding, cutting off her oxygen.

The chemical drug in her veins flared back to life, mixing with the terrifying heat of