Page 70 of Siren

Hoodie loose. Lips glossy. Hair tucked under a black fitted like she wasn’t one of the most recognizable voices and faces in the game. She leaned close to whisper something wild about a player’s tight pants and cracked up when I gave her a look.

That laugh—that shit did something to me. Not just because it was beautiful. But because it was free. Like she’d peeled herself out of the headlines and just decided tobehere. With me. No tension. No lights. Just us.

I used to think the most dangerous thing about her was her voice.

I was wrong.

It was this—us. Out in the open. No booth, no dim lights, no fake flirting for the label. Just her shoulder pressed to mine, and that familiar ache in my chest building again.

I took a slow sip of my drink, tried to focus on the game, but her hand brushed my thigh and I flinched.

“You alright?” she asked, grinning.

“Define alright.”

She bit her lip like she wanted to say something slick, but then she caught it—someone’s phone lifted two rows ahead ofus. The subtle angle. The slow zoom. The shake of a hand trying to steady excitement.

“They see us,” I muttered.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “They do.”

She didn’t shrink. Didn’t pull away. Just sat a little straighter, adjusting her sunglasses and linking her fingers in her lap.

I felt it again—that pull toward her. Not fear. Not the urge to run. Just the quiet ache to protect what was mine… and let the world see it.

I leaned in a little. “We can dip if you want.”

She shook her head, eyes never leaving the field. “Nah. Let ’em watch.”

I studied her for a beat. The way her jaw was set. The glint in her eye. The calm in her body. She wasn’t shaken.

She was done hiding.

And maybe that was what made something ease in my chest. Because I’d spent most of my life keeping things close—staying quiet, staying low. But this—Sienna Ray beside me, smiling like the sun had always favored her first—that, I could live with. Hell, I couldlet the world see it.

I nodded, voice low but sure. “Then we’ll let ’em.”

She turned her face toward me, slow and deliberate. And when our eyes met, I saw it. Not the curated version. Not the image they pushed. Buther. Bare. Steady. Choosing me in real time.

That look was intimate. Unapologetic.

And it felt like the softest kind of spotlight. Before I could speak, the stadium erupted around us—not in noise, but in light.

The jumbotron lit up above the field, and there we were—caught on the screen, side by side in Section 123. First the image. Then the text.

SIENNA RAY & TARAJ FERRELL

Gold font. All caps. Centered like a headline the world had been waiting for.

Gasps. A beat of silence. Then the swell of recognition as the crowd caught on. Cheers started in pockets, then spread like a wave.

Phones rose. Fingers pointed. Sienna’s eyes never left mine and I knew what she was asking without saying a word.

So I gave her the answer. I leaned in and kissed her.

Right there, under that massive screen, in front of thousands of strangers and one woman I didn’t want to hide from.

Our lips met—soft, deliberate, and so damn sure. Her hand found my jaw. My fingers brushed her thigh. It was more than affection. It was ownership. Not of each other, but of the truth between us.

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