Page 44 of Siren

Dre looked between us. Then back at her.

“Where am I taking you, Ms. Ray?”

She didn’t answer. Not right away. She just kept watching me. Eyes steady. Unapologetic.

And everything in her look saidyour move.

My voice came out low. I had to have her again.

“Take us to mine.”

Sienna turned back to Dre, smooth as ever. “You heard him.”

He didn’t blink. Just opened the back door and loaded our bags like this was nothing out of the ordinary.

We slid into the backseat. We were lying again. To the label. To the press. To whoever took that photo and tossed it to the wolves.

But not to each other.

Not tonight.

I looked out the window, watched the city smear past instreaks of streetlight and glass. But in my head, I was already unzipping her coat again. Already hearing her whisper my name into my mouth.

Already bracing for the wreck I knew was coming—and chasing it anyway.

FIFTEEN

His place smelled like oud and something darker. Something warm. Masculine. Not cologne—presence. Like heat still lived in the walls.

Like secrets had been fucked into the furniture and never fully left.

It remindedme of the scent I chased along his neck.

A body oil he once said came from Jamil’s in East Liberty.

“It’s called Amber Smoke. What, you like it?”

“I love it,”I’d practically purred.

I stepped inside his condo apartment slowly, pulling my coat tighter—even though I wasn’t cold.

It was nerves. Tight around the edges. Trying to keep me small when I’d come here to open.

The foyer gave way to an open-concept living space—wide and intentional. Hardwood floors stretched beneath my heels, dark and matte, like they’d been chosen just to hush the sound of footsteps.

To the left, tall built-in shelves cradled rare vinyls and first-edition books. A console held a vintage record player gleaming like it was loved.

A mic stand stood in the far corner, spotlighted by a track light overhead—silent, but not forgotten.

Floor-to-ceiling windows framed the skyline. Curtains open. City lights pouring in like applause.

The couch was low, deep, and masculine—charcoal velvet with clean lines, draped in a single soft throw the color of wine.

No clutter. No noise.

Just mood.

Just him.

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