Chapter
Twenty-Seven
Six Months Later.
Early fall had settled over Fate Mountain. The leaves were turning, and harvest season had the orchards working overtime. The air was cool and clean, carrying the scent of wet pine and woodsmoke.
The mate bond hummed in Reed’s chest. Siren’s presence had become so familiar, he couldn’t remember what it was like to be without her inside him.
She’d moved into his cottage. Her leather jacket hung on the hook by the door. Her motorcycle boots sat beside his hiking boots.
She’d started taking yoga classes at the community center. And her yoga mat was now rolled up in the studio beside his guitar.
On a misty fall morning, Reed walked into the kitchen to find Siren standing at the counter, pouring coffee into two mugs. She was wearing one of his flannels over her panties. Her dark hair loose around her shoulders. He could smell the scent of their lovemaking wafting through the air.
“Morning,” he said, wrapping his arms around her waist from behind.
“Morning,” she said, leaning her head back against his chest.
Six months ago, she would have flinched at his touch. But it was the opposite now. Siren no longer had walls up against him. She was still a bad ass operative. But with him, she was his lover.
She couldn’t keep her hands off him, and more often than not, when they were at home, they were in bed. Not that love making was all they did. They had learned that they enjoyed all kinds of activities together.
They’d been out to the lodge for dinner several times. They’d started going fishing together every other weekend at the dock at his dad’s house. Siren was an amazing fisherman. Not that Reed was surprised.
They walked into town for the Saturday market and visited his sister Holly at her booth. They bought fresh bread at Sweet Summit Bakery twice a week. Brie had taught Reed how to bake her famous lemon squares. But he was sure she’d kept out a secret ingredient. Even if they weren’t as good as Brie’s, he loved sharing his baked treats with Siren by the fire.
“I heard ‘Out of My Hands’ on the radio this morning,” she said, turning around in his arms. She pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I’m so proud of you.”
His album had come out two weeks ago, recorded with an indie label out of Portland. He’d recorded several new songs in their studios, re-recorded a few that needed more polish, and they’d helped him master his previously recorded tracks with a professional producer. It had come out better than he could have imagined.
It was twelve songs in total. He’d written a few brand-new songs about his adventure with Siren. And falling in love with her.
“Out of My Hands,” was the song about his shifting issues. The one he’d debuted at the brewery the night Carl Unger was killed. He’d added a new bridge that reflected what he’d learned about working with his bear with Siren.
“The DJ called it ‘authentic mountain folk with unexpected emotional depth’. He said you’re on the brink of stardom. Will you remember me when you’re famous,” she teased.
Reed blushed as she batted her eyelashes at him. He didn’t care about fame. He’d been working on this album since he was in high school, and he’d finally finished it. He had Siren to thank for that. She’d been his muse. And his inspiration.
Siren’s phone buzzed on the counter and she picked it up.
“It’s Dom,” she said. “I need to take this.” She squeezed his shoulder and stepped into the bedroom.
Reed sipped his coffee and gazed out the window over the sink. Little pots of cooking herbs lined the sill. The grass in the backyard was fading to brown, and the leaves of the big maple were brilliant orange. A few fluttered on the breeze as the morning sky brightened to eggshell blue.
Siren came back to the living room a few minutes later, dressed in thick jeans, a black sweatshirt, and boots, sliding into her leather jacket over her shoulder holster.
“I need to go in today,” she said. “I’ll be home later this afternoon.”
He walked her to the door and watched her mount the Harley parked under the carport in the driveway.
“Love you, baby,” she said, throwing him a kiss before pulling on her helmet.
“Stay safe, angel,” he said, waving as she turned and rode away. He watched her accelerate down the street, engine growling, her dark hair whipping behind her in the wind.
His dark angel. Dangerous and beautiful. He was the luckiest man alive.
Reed went back inside. He had Saturdays off from work at the Institute. He puttered around the house, sipping coffee. He strummed his guitar and then opened his phone to read the news.
