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 the man above her. Her muscles betrayed her. Her vision went completely black.

The last of her rational defenses shattered into dust.

Hours later, a thin, sharp blade of morning light pierced through the gap in the heavy blackout curtains. It hit the carpet, casting a weak, gray glow across the floor.

Alisson opened her eyes.

Every single bone in her body felt like it had been crushed under a concrete block. A sharp, tearing pain shot through her lower body the moment she shifted her hips.

She bit down hard on the soft inside of her cheek. She bit down until she tasted the warm, metallic tang of her own blood, using the pain to force her brain to wake up.

She slowly, agonizingly, pushed herself up to a sitting position on the edge of the massive bed.

She turned her head.

The man was sleeping on his stomach. The weak light illuminated his broad, heavily muscled back.

Running diagonally across his left shoulder blade was a faded, jagged scar. It was the kind of scar left by a knife.

Alisson's breath stopped. Her fingertips went numb.

This man was not just a wealthy investor. That scar screamed of violence, of a world she had no business being anywhere near. She had stumbled into the bed of someone incredibly dangerous.

If he woke up and saw her face, she was dead.

She slid off the edge of the mattress. Her bare feet hit the thick, plush carpet. Her legs shook so violently she almost collapsed.

She bent down and grabbed the shredded pieces of her red silk gown from the floor. She wrapped the ruined fabric around her chest, tying a clumsy knot at her waist to cover her nakedness.

She took a step toward the heavy oak door.

Her elbow brushed against the edge of the nightstand.

Clink.

A glass water cup tipped over. It hit the wooden surface with a dull, heavy thud, water spilling over the edge and dripping onto the carpet.

The sound was deafening in the silent room.

On the bed, the man let out a low groan. His thick eyebrows pulled together in a deep frown. The muscles in his back shifted as he began to roll over.

Alisson stopped breathing.

She pressed her spine flat against the cold, wallpapered wall. Her hands clamped over her own mouth. Her heart beat so fast it blurred into one continuous, painful vibration in her chest.

She watched the man's hand twitch.

He settled back into the pillows, his breathing returning to a slow, even rhythm.

Alisson did not wait another second.

She grabbed the brass door handle, twisted it, and slipped out into the hallway.

The corridor was empty. She ran. She ignored the burning pain in her legs and the cold air biting at her exposed skin. She bypassed the main elevators and threw open the heavy metal door to the service stairwell. She descended rapidly, her bare feet bleeding against the concrete. As she reached the basement level, the screech of walkie-talkies echoed down the hall. "Lockdown initiated! Seal the loading docks!" a guard yelled. Alisson's heart dropped. She dove behind a massive canvas laundry cart just as two security guards jogged past. An exhausted hotel worker blindly pushed the cart toward the loading dock's closing shutter. Alisson crawled alongside it, using the cart as a moving shield, and rolled under the descending metal gate with less than a second to spare.

She did not look back.

Ten minutes later, inside the penthouse suite, Jake Yates opened his eyes.

His vision was sharp, though a dull ache throbbed at his temples. The remnants of alcohol and whatever drug had been slipped into his drink last night still lingered in his bloodstream.

He sat up. The sheets pooled around his waist.

He reached his hand out to the right side of the bed.

The mattress was cold.

Jake's jaw locked. The muscles in his neck pulled tight. He turned his head, his dark, piercing eyes scanning the empty room.

The woman was gone.

He took a deep breath. The air in the room still held the faint, sweet scent of vanilla. Her scent.

He threw the covers off and stepped onto the carpet. As he walked toward the bathroom, his bare foot stepped on something small and hard.

Jake looked down.

Half-buried in the thick fibers of the rug was a single pearl earring.

He bent down and picked it up. The pearl was smooth, but the silver post at the back was sharp.

Jake closed his fist around the earring. He squeezed his hand until the sharp metal post pierced the skin of his palm. He did not flinch. He let the sharp sting anchor his rising, violent possessiveness.

He walked over to the nightstand and picked up his encrypted black smartphone.

He dialed his chief assistant's number. It rang once.

"Mr. Yates."

"Lock down the KS Hotel," Jake ordered, his voice a low, absolute command that left no room for hesitation. "Every exit. Every camera. Find the woman who left my suite. Now."

The morning rain was freezing. It hit the pavement in heavy, gray sheets.

Alisson burst out of the underground laundry loading dock, shivering violently in her torn silk dress. She wrapped her arms around herself, her teeth chattering so hard her jaw ached.

She ran into the middle of the street and threw her hand up.

A yellow cab slammed on its brakes, the tires splashing dirty water onto her bare legs.

Alisson ripped the back door open and threw herself onto the worn leather seat.

"Drive," she gasped, her chest heaving. "Take me to Queens. The poorest neighborhood you know. Just drive."

The cab driver took one look at her pale, terrified face in the rearview mirror and hit the gas.

Miles away, in the opulent living room of the Lucas Estate in Long Island, the air was thick with tension.

Bella Lucas stood in the center of the room, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

Iman Lucas stood by the fireplace, his face pale and slick with sweat. He held his phone slightly away from his ear. The voice of the investor, Quentin, screamed through the speaker, echoing off the high ceilings.

"You promised me the girl! The suite was empty! You think you can play games with my money, Lucas?"

The line went dead.

Iman slowly lowered the phone. He looked at Bella.

Bella's hands balled into fists. Her perfectly manicured nails dug into her palms. The plan was flawless. She had personally watched the guards drag the drugged Alisson into the hotel elevator.

She failed. Alisson had escaped.

Bella grabbed the crystal vase off the coffee table and hurled it at the wall. It shattered into a hundred pieces.

She snatched her phone from the sofa and dialed the captain of their private security team.

"Find Alisson Ford," Bella shrieked into the receiver, her voice shrill and entirely unhinged. "Tear the city apart if you have to. Bring that bitch back to me!"