Free Read Sample 4th Installment of "Bound by The Triplets"

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Chapter 38

I heard the sound of metal clinking. The doctors were laying out surgical tools. The sound was sharp and rhythmic. 

Then, I felt a cold liquid on my skin. They were washing my body with antiseptic. It smelled like chemicals and death.

"We are going to operate on you today," Daemon said.

"Yes, sir," I whispered.

"You aren't going to ask what kind of surgery?"

I opened my eyes. The bright surgical light blinded me for a second. I wanted to say it didn't matter. But I chose to be the girl they wanted. I chose to be submissive.

"What kind of operation?" I asked softly.

"We are going to harvest your organs," Daemon replied. He leaned over me, his shadow blocking the light. "You know we are not a charity. We paid for your brother. Now you pay us back. Piece by piece."

"Yes, sir," I answered. I kept my voice flat. I accepted my fate.

"Oh? Did I mention the surgery is without sedation?" he added.

I looked down at my arms. There was no IV drip. There was no bag of medicine. Shit. They were attaching electrodes to my chest to monitor my heart, but there was no oxygen mask. There was no gas to put me to sleep.

My heart began to race. I closed my eyes as the horror became real. Then I felt it: a cold scalpel touched my skin. It traced a slow line from the center of my chest down to my abdomen. It didn't cut yet; it just pressed.

I looked up to see who held the blade. It was Daemon. Suddenly, a spike of arousal hit me. It was sick. It was wrong. But it was there. 

It was always Daemon. I could always tell it was his touch. He was the one who gave me butterflies, even with the most terrifying face I had ever seen. 

He had broken me so completely that I felt a thrill at the edge of death.

The head doctor stepped forward with a tray of tools. "Would you like to make the first incision, Mr. Fraser?"

"Yup," Daemon said.

He pressed the tip of the blade harder into the skin of my stomach. I felt the sharp point bite. The first sting of real pain. My breath hitched. My body trembled against the cold table. 

I watched his eyes. They were focused and dark. He looked at me like I was a masterpiece he was about to ruin.

"Don't blink, Amara," he whispered. "I want you to see exactly what you're worth."

The room grew silent. The only sound was the steady beep of the heart monitor. It was getting faster. He was waiting for me to scream. 

The pain was slow and focused. It felt like a thin line of liquid fire was being drawn across my stomach.

My muscles jumped, coiling tight under the leather straps. My toes curled. My heels dug into the table.

"Pretty," Aeron whispered, leaning over my shoulder. "Your skin is parting like silk."

I watched the blade. I watched the red line blooming behind it. I didn't scream. I bit my lip until I tasted my own blood. My breath came in short, jagged bursts. 

The smell of antiseptic was replaced by the metallic scent of fresh blood. 

Daemon’s eyes stayed on mine. He saw the sweat on my forehead and the way my chest heaved. He moved the blade deeper.

The pain intensified. It felt like a hot wire was being dragged through my insides. The heart monitor began a frantic, rapid rhythm.

"Her heart is singing for you, Daemon," Declan mocked. He reached out and touched my inner thigh, feeling the tremors shaking my frame.

I felt a wave of dizziness, but the arousal didn't fade. It grew. The pain was so sharp it turned into a heavy, pulsing heat between my legs. My body was confused, reacting to the trauma and the proximity of the man I feared most.

The cold air hit the open wound. It was a new kind of agony—a raw, biting chill inside my own body. I let out a low, guttural moan. My hips jerked against the leather restraints.

"You like the edge," Daemon noted. He stopped the blade halfway down my abdomen and left the steel sitting in the cut. "You’re dripping for the man who’s cutting you open."

He reached out with his free hand and gripped my throat. He squeezed just enough to make the room go dark at the edges. 

The pain in my stomach and the pressure on my neck were overwhelming. My vision flickered. I felt my internal muscles clench in a desperate, final surge of pleasure.

I was at the absolute limit. My skin was pale; my eyes were wide and glazed. I was a map of blood, sweat, and silver light.

"More," I gasped. The word was a broken shadow of a sound.

Daemon smiled. It was the most terrifying thing I had ever seen. He gripped the scalpel tighter and prepared to finish the long, red line.

---

 

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Free Read Vol 4 of The Duke, The Brothel and The Prince (Maison De’Lombre)

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Copyright © 2026 Dannesya

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is purely coincidental.

First Edition: 2026

Published by Aysennad Pub

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[www.dannesyawrites.com/ soleildelamer.author@gmail.com]

Chapter 31

Moments later, Bernard stepped back into the refined warmth of the candlelit establishment, brushing off the chill of the evening air from his coat. As he moved through the quiet dining hall, his gaze fell upon the scene before him—and his footsteps halted mid-step.

There, at the far end of the room, sat Adelise... in conversation with a man Bernard instantly recognized. For a fleeting moment, surprise flickered across his face. He had not expected the investor to arrive so soon—nor to have already made contact with Adelise.

But Alaric, seated with all the poise of a seasoned nobleman, gave Bernard a small, knowing nod. It was enough.

Bernard cleared his throat and approached the table. “Lady Adelise,” he said, his tone more measured now. “Allow me to formally introduce Lord Alaric—our prospective investor.”

Adelise’s posture straightened. Her eyes, sharpened with new awareness. So this was the man behind the cryptic negotiations, the one whose involvement had promised to turn Maison’s fortunes around.

Alaric inclined his head slightly, the trace of a smile lingering on his lips. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you under more… deliberate circumstances.”

Adelise nodded in return, though she studied him carefully now, her earlier wariness doubling. “Likewise. I didn’t expect our meeting would come with such a dramatic introduction.”

Alaric chuckled—a low, smooth sound. “Neither did I. But sometimes fate has a flair for theatrics.”

They sat together at the long table, the flicker of candlelight casting soft shadows across their faces. Bernard took a seat beside Adelise, folding his hands on the table, while Alaric leaned back slightly, his manner relaxed, almost leisurely—but with an unmistakable undercurrent of calculation.

“I’ve been observing Maison for some time now,” Alaric began, his voice rich and assured. “Its rise in Rouvenne has not gone unnoticed. I see great potential—especially with the right backing.”

Adelise raised an eyebrow. “And you believe you’re the right kind of backing?”

“I don’t just believe,” Alaric replied smoothly. “I know.”

His confidence was magnetic, unsettling. “Maison has the heart,” he continued. “What it needs is armor. Financial, political, and social. That’s what I offer.”

Bernard nodded, interjecting carefully, “Lord Alaric’s record speaks for itself. His previous ventures in trade and manufacturing flourished within a year of his involvement. But he’s also known for being... meticulous. Every partnership he enters is calculated, strategic.”

Adelise looked between the two men, her fingers laced lightly on the table. “And how should I interpret your interest, Lord Alaric? Is this truly about opportunity—or about influence?”

Alaric didn’t flinch. “Both. You’re building something that threatens the old order, whether you intend to or not. Maison isn’t just a business—it’s becoming a symbol. And symbols are either embraced... or destroyed.”

A long pause settled between them.

Adelise held his gaze. “So which are you here to do?”

Alaric smiled faintly, eyes glinting. “To ensure it’s embraced.”

The room seemed to grow quieter, the candle flames swaying in the tension between them. Though his words were reassuring, Adelise wasn’t so easily convinced. She knew men like Alaric. Their power wasn’t in their titles—it was in what they withheld. He had shown his hand, but only enough to keep her guessing.

Still, Maison needed allies. Powerful ones. And in Alaric, she saw both the possibility of salvation... and a dangerous cost.

“Very well,” she said finally, her voice steady. “Let’s discuss what this partnership would look like.”

As they leaned in toward the center of the table, the negotiations began—but in Adelise’s mind, a quiet voice whispered: Keep your friends close… and your investors closer.

*

As the golden light of the setting sun filtered through the stained-glass windows, their conversation began to wind down. The air was warm with unspoken intentions and veiled diplomacy, yet one element brought a peculiar contrast to the tense negotiations: the presence of a small child nestled quietly in her father's lap.

Lusiana sat curled against Alaric’s chest, her tiny fingers clutching the edge of his coat. She peeked at Adelise from beneath long lashes—curious, watchful, as if trying to decide whether this elegant woman before her was friend or foe. 

There was still a hint of uncertainty in her expression, but the terror from earlier had melted into cautious calm. Every now and then, she would tighten her grip on Alaric, as if needing to remind herself that he was there.

Adelise met the girl's gaze and offered a gentle, almost involuntary smile. Something about the child’s vulnerability stirred a protective instinct she hadn’t expected. She quickly looked away, refocusing on the man seated across from her.

After what felt like hours of circling intentions and carefully measured proposals, the trio reached a preliminary understanding. Nothing was yet signed, but a foundation had been laid. Alaric had offered terms—generous ones, with the caveat that all conditions be met with precision. He wanted structure. Discipline. Discretion.

“I will provide the resources,” he said smoothly, stroking Lusiana’s hair with an absent hand, “but I expect clarity in return. No surprises. And no distractions.”

Adelise inclined her head. “Maison is built on discipline, Lord Alaric. We thrive on it.”

He studied her a moment longer before nodding, seemingly satisfied. “Then we’re in agreement.”

As they all rose from the table, Bernard moved to gather the documents and notes. Alaric, however, turned to Adelise one last time, Lusiana now resting her head sleepily on his shoulder.

“I owe you more than just a thank-you,” he said, his tone softer than before. “If you hadn’t acted when you did…”

He trailed off, his eyes meeting hers with something deeper—gratitude, yes, but also intrigue. Something unreadable passed between them in that silent moment.

Then he smiled—small, deliberate. “I believe I’ve chosen the right person to support. Not only for your ambition... but for your character.”

Adelise held his gaze, offering nothing more than a polite smile. “Time will tell, Lord Alaric.”

As he turned to leave, the soft tap of Lusiana’s boots echoed lightly against the marble floor. Bernard followed them to the door, exchanging a few final words, but Adelise remained rooted in place, her thoughts drifting far from the empty table in front of her.

*

As Alaric and Lusiana stepped out of the restaurant, silence slowly settled over the room once more. Bernard busied himself gathering documents from the table, but Adelise’s mind had drifted far from the present moment.

Her eyes lingered on the door that had just closed behind the enigmatic man. Then, like a flash of lightning cutting through fog, a memory surfaced—sharp, vivid, undeniable.

A few days ago. The art gallery in the northern district. She had been walking alone, enjoying a quiet afternoon, when someone bumped into her in one of the secluded corridors of the gallery. 

A man in a long coat, with the faint scent of woodsy cologne. She’d only caught a glimpse of his face, but it had left an impression too strong to dismiss.

That face… it was strikingly similar to Alaric’s.

Adelise closed her eyes briefly, trying to dig deeper into the memory. The man hadn’t spoken a word. He’d simply looked at her—long enough to send a strange chill down her spine—then turned and walked away.

She had thought nothing of it then. Just a random encounter. Forgettable.

But now… it felt different.

"Was he there on purpose?" she whispered to herself. "Or has he been watching longer than I realized?"

Her heart began to race—not with fear, but with the sting of unraveling curiosity. Her instincts stirred uneasily, warning her that a man like Alaric never moved without intention.

Their meeting today may have appeared accidental, even fateful. But perhaps... it had been part of a plan set in motion long before.

And if that was true, the real question was no longer whether she could trust Alaric—

—but whether she was prepared for what came next.

*

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Chapter 42

The corridors stretched empty ahead. Guards turned away as they passed. Seraphine's hand shook in Kael's grip, but she kept her chin high.

Their footsteps echoed—hers quick, his measured.

"Kael." She waited until they'd turned the corner. "What have we done?"

He pulled her through a side passage, up a spiral staircase, onto a balcony overlooking the eastern gardens.

Night air cooled her face. Inside, beneath her skin, heat burned like coals that wouldn't die.

Kael released her hand. His eyes had returned to gold, but something ancient remained. "Let me see."

She extended her arm. Where the holy water touched—nothing. Not even pink.

His fingers traced the unblemished skin. "Does it hurt?"

"No." She met his gaze. "But it should. Normal people burn. I should have screamed, blistered." She swallowed. "Instead it just... evaporated."

"You're not normal anymore." His thumb circled her wrist. "The dragon blood changed you."

"Into what?" The words came sharper than intended. "A monster?"

"Mine." He pulled her closer, hand cupping her face. "You're mine, Seraphine. My wife. My empress. Not a monster."

Those horrified faces. Nobles scrambling backward. Crosses drawn hastily in the air.

"They all saw. By morning, the entire kingdom will know their empress is—"

"Is what?" He leaned his forehead against hers. "Touched by dragon fire? Protected by ancient magic? Let them know."

"Or rebel." Her pragmatic side wouldn't be silenced. "Brother Aldrich has influence. If he convinces them I'm demon-touched—"

"Then he answers to me." Kael's smile was sharp. "And explains why their lord protects a demon so fiercely."

Movement below. A robed figure moved through garden shadows toward the chapel. Even from here, she recognized that rigid posture.

"Aldrich."

Kael's jaw tightened. "He won't rest until he's 'saved' the kingdom from you."

"What will you do?"

"What I must." He kissed her forehead. "Go to our chambers. Wait for me."

She caught his arm. "Don't kill him. His death would only prove him right."

"I won't kill him." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "But I'll make him understand the price of threatening what's mine."

He started to leave. She held on. "Kael. Earlier, in the hall—your eyes, your voice. That wasn't just anger."

Silence. Then slowly, he raised his hand between them. His fingers elongated, nails darkening to obsidian talons. The transformation lasted seconds before his hand returned to normal.

"I wanted you to love the man," he said quietly. "Not fear the dragon."

Her breath caught. "The dragons that are coming. They're your family."

"My brothers. Half-brothers." He turned toward the mountains. "They felt the awakening. A female dragon. You."

"I don't understand."

"Female dragons are forbidden by ancient law. Too many humans sought the power and went mad." He met her eyes. "My father broke that law for me. I broke it for you. And I'd do it again."

Cold spread through her chest. "What happens when they arrive?"

"They'll test you. Determine if you're worthy or if you're another human corrupted by power." His hand found hers again. "But you're strong. You'll survive."

"And if I don't?"

"Then they go through me first." His expression hardened. "And I'm my father's son. I don't lose."

Below, Brother Aldrich entered the chapel. Candlelight flickered through stained glass.

"He's praying," Seraphine observed.

"For guidance. Or an army."

"Then you should hurry." She kissed him deeply, as if drawing strength from her. When he pulled away, his eyes held that dragon-light again. "Whatever you hear tonight, whatever rumors reach you tomorrow—remember. You're my empress. No church, no brother, no dragon council can change that."

She watched him descend, his form growing darker with each step.

She understood now. Why nobles feared him. Why even Aldrich's voice had trembled.

Kael wasn't just a powerful lord. He was something ancient.

And he'd made her his equal.

She looked at her hands—slender, pale, deceptively delicate. But beneath the skin: heat, power, waiting fire.

Holy water hadn't burned her because fire couldn't harm fire.

Animals fled because they sensed the predator she'd become.

 *

Seraphine was changing in ways beyond the obvious.

Her senses had sharpened. She could hear conversations three rooms away. Could smell when Kael's emotions shifted. Could feel footsteps through stone floors.

Food tasted different. Richer. More complex. Wine that used to please her now tasted weak.

And there was the heat.

It started small. A warmth in her chest she blamed on the castle's fireplaces. But it grew. Spread through her veins like molten gold.

Some nights she woke gasping. Sheets soaked with sweat. Kael's concerned face hovering above her.

"It's normal," he'd say. His hand cool against her burning forehead. "Your body is adjusting. The dragon blood is settling."

"How long will this last?"

His hesitation told her everything. "It varies. For some, weeks. For others..." He trailed off. Pressed a kiss to her temple. "We'll manage it together."

But they weren't managing it.

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Chapter 111

The silence was deafening.

Beatrice stood frozen in the doorway, her hand still gripping the frame for support. Her legs trembled beneath her, weak from months of forced sedation, weak from childbirth, weak from everything Atlas had put her through.

But none of that mattered now.

Because Atlas was lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood.

The gun had clattered from his hand, skittering across the polished marble until it came to rest against the far wall. His body was motionless, sprawled at an unnatural angle, one arm flung out as if reaching for something—or someone—that would never come.

Blood.

So much blood.

It spread across the pristine white floor like spilled ink, dark and viscous, pooling beneath his head. The metallic scent filled the air, thick and suffocating, mixing with the acrid smell of gunpowder.

Beatrice's breath came in short, shallow gasps. Her vision blurred at the edges, the world tilting dangerously.

This isn't real. This can't be real.

But it was.

Atlas—the man who had manipulated her, drugged her, stolen her child, planned her death—was dying.

Or maybe already dead.

"Atlas..." The name fell from her lips, barely a whisper.

No response.

Her heart pounded so violently she thought it might burst from her chest. Every instinct screamed at her to move, to do something, but her body refused to obey.

And then—

"LET HIM DIE."

Blade's voice exploded in her mind, sharp and vicious, cutting through the shock like a blade through flesh.

Beatrice flinched, her hands flying to her temples.

"Let him die, Bea," Blade repeated, his tone colder now, more controlled but no less intense. "This is what he deserves. After everything he's done—to you, to me, to us—he deserves to bleed out on this floor like the dog he is."

Beatrice's throat tightened. Her vision swam with unshed tears.

"I..." She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat.

"Don't you dare," Blade snarled. "Don't you fucking dare try to save him. He tried to kill you, Bea. He drugged you. He took your son. He was going to let you die and raise our child as his own. And you want to save him?"

"I—" Beatrice's voice cracked. "I don't know..."

"You don't know?!" Blade's fury burned through her skull like fire. "Are you out of your goddamn mind? This man has done nothing but hurt you from the moment you met him! He doesn't deserve your compassion. He doesn't deserve your mercy!"

Beatrice's knees buckled. She sank to the floor, her hands pressing against the cold marble as she tried to steady herself.

Atlas's blood was inching closer, creeping toward her fingers like a living thing.

She jerked her hand back.

"Blade..." she whispered, tears streaming down her face. "He's... he's the father of my child."

A bitter laugh echoed in her mind.

"Father?" Blade spat the word like poison. "He's a monster. He doesn't get to be a father. He doesn't get to be anything."

Beatrice shook her head, her breath coming in ragged sobs. "But our son... what do I tell our son? That I let his father die? That I stood there and watched?"

"You tell him the truth," Blade said coldly. "That his father was a killer. A manipulator. A man who would have destroyed you both without a second thought."

Beatrice pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to block out the voice, the blood, the overwhelming sense of drowning. But she couldn't. Because Blade was right.

Atlas had done all of those things. He had hurt her, betrayed her, nearly killed her. And yet...

Her hand moved.

Slowly, trembling, her fingers reached for the phone in her pocket.

"Bea, NO!" Blade roared. "Don't you fucking do it! Don't you—"

Beatrice pulled out her phone, her vision blurred by tears, her hands shaking so badly she could barely hold it.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry, Blade, but I... I can't..."

"BEA!"

She dialed.

The line rang once. Twice.

"Emergency services, what's your location?"

Beatrice opened her mouth, but no sound came out at first. Her throat was too tight, her chest too constricted.

"Hello? Are you there?"

"I..." Beatrice forced the words out, each one like a knife twisting in her gut. "I need... an ambulance. There's been... a shooting."

Blade's scream tore through her mind, raw and agonized.

"YOU FOOL! YOU FUCKING FOOL!"

Beatrice squeezed her eyes shut, tears streaming down her face as she gave the operator the address.

"Please hurry," she choked out. "He's... he's losing a lot of blood."

The operator's voice was calm, professional. "Stay on the line. Help is on the way. Can you tell me if the victim is breathing?"

Beatrice's gaze snapped to Atlas. His chest rose and fell—barely. Shallow, labored breaths that rattled in his lungs.

"Yes," she whispered. "He's breathing."