Page 85 of Siren

Dre pulled up to an overlook that sat just high enough to feel separate from the world below. Not a tourist spot—something quieter. More private.

He stayed in the SUV, giving us space. We stepped out.

No paparazzi. No fans. Just Sienna in my hoodie again, the hem skimming her bare thighs, her eyes wide like she was trying to memorize this version of the night.

“I’m scared,” I admitted but not caring how it made me look. “Not of us. But of time. Of how fast everything moves. You’re leaving soon, and I keep thinking… what if I don’t know how to keep you when the world keeps trying to claim pieces?”

Her voice was barely a whisper. “You don’t have to keep me, Taraj. Just love me.”

I pulled her in. Right there, under the moon. My mouth claimed hers slow—like the answer I’d been searching for was hidden somewhere between her lips.

And later, when we finally made it back to my place, we didn’t speak much. She stayed wrapped around me. Her legs tangled with mine. My hands on her hips. Her cries in my ear.

And when her body trembled and she came on my dick with tears breaking down her cheeks, I felt everything.

Everything I couldn’t say. Everything I didn’t know how to fix.

The tour was real. Eight weeks. Back-to-back shows. Europe. U.S. stops. Sold-out cities and dreams she deserved.

But here—right now—was our truth.

I cradled her face, kissed the salt from her skin, and held her until her breathing slowed again. Neither of us said it outloud. But we both knew what it meant. She was slipping into the sky.

And I had no idea how to stop loving her without losing myself in the process.

We lay tangled in the dark, her breath on my chest, sweat cooling on our skin. I ran my fingers down her back, memorizing the curves of the woman who made music sound like something God created with me in mind.

And as the night held us close, I wondered how the hell I was supposed to keep her forever… when time kept knocking like it had other plans.

And in the midst of my fears, I said what we both needed to hear, “We’ve got time.”

THIRTY

Philadelphia, PA, Three Days Before Tour Launch

The scent of sweet potatoes hit me first—brown sugar and cinnamon curling through the air like memory. Jasmine must’ve been baking that sweetpotato pound cake she only made in the summer, rich and golden, like holidays showed up early.

“Sienna Ray! Girl—get in here!”

I laughed, dropping my bag near the stairs and slipping off my heels. This house had always been a soft place to land. The kind of space that never changed, even as everything else around me did.

The living room was warm and well-lived, the kind of cozy that had its own heartbeat. Wedding photos, school portraits, framed drawings, a scripture framed in gold leaf: Let love be genuine. Hold fast to what is good.

Jasmine’s voice floated from the kitchen. “Grab a glass, superstar. You ain’t company.”

I followed the sound and walked into what had to be the happiest kitchen in all of Philly. Yellow walls, cream cabinets, and a wooden island covered in flour like someone had thrown a celebration.

Her youngest, Savannah, was licking batter from a spoon. The oldest, Mariah, braided a doll’s hair with expert precision.

“Auntie Enna!” Savannah squealed, running straight into my legs.

“Hey baby,” I said, scooping her up. “You been baking?”

She nodded, serious. “I poured the vanilla.”

“Brave woman,” I teased Jasmine.

“I try,” she said dryly, wiping her hands. “Dinner’s almost done. Darnell’s outside doing the most with the grill.”

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