Page 13 of Siren

“She’s special,” I murmured, slowing in front of one of the newer pieces—crimson and cobalt clashing across raw linen, streaks of copper and soot cutting jagged through the center.

“She is,” Taraj said beside me. His voice matched the room. Deep. Low. Intentional.

“That one’s from herUnboundseries,” he added, almost casually.

I blinked and looked at him. “You know the title?”

He nodded, eyes still on the piece. “Been following her since she painted on her kitchen floor and sold prints through PayPal.”

That surprised me. And moved me.

“The indie art movement was all the rave.”

He looked over, met my gaze. “Yeah. Had one of her early pieces hanging in my studio before anything ever charted.”

A pause bloomed between us. Soft but charged.

We kept walking. One canvas after the next—each one a story written in brushstroke and breath.

“She paints like someone who’s lost things,” I said. “Things she doesn’t talk about.”

“She did,” I added, quieter now. “Cancer. Her brother. A house fire, I think.”

He tilted his head slightly, watching me like he was learning something aboutmetoo.

“You followed her story.”

“I did.”

That was the first moment we weren’t just artists forced to collaborate. We weretwo peoplewith something in common.

Taraj didn’t say much as we turned the corner. Just took his time, like the air had shifted and he wasn’t in a rush to breathe again.

“You don’t strike me as the label’s idea,” I said, letting the words stretch.

He lifted a brow, faint amusement tugging at his mouth. “That obvious?”

“You carry quiet like a creed. Doesn’t usually play well on a rollout.”

“They don’t want real,” he said. “Just real-looking.”

“Smoke and mirrors.”

“Wrapped in a verse and a slow burn.”

I looked over—and there he was, already looking back. Not performing. Just… present.

“And you’re fine with that?”

“No.” His pause was soft but sure. “But I’ve learned to pick my battles.”

There was something in the way he said it. Like he’d already walked through wars and still carried the ash on his skin.

“You ever wish you could disappear?” I asked thinking about the wars I didn’t want to fight anymore.

His gaze didn’t flinch. “Already did. For a while.”

My breath caught. That wasn’t a line. That wasconfession. Quiet and bare.

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