Page 4 of The Pirate and His Siren

Sirens don’t mind the cold. The Bay of Udira can be quite frigid in the dark, deepest parts of the ocean, but we can’t deal with the snow and ice.

While I could’ve come ashore on the beach, ascending onto the jetty allows the changes to my body to happen without having to drag myself across the sand. Unlike merpeople, whose body changes are involuntary, sirens can change their bodies at will from their tail forms to having legs.

I magic clothes onto my body before pulling myself over the top of the pier. My outfit is a collared, white shirt ofsturdy, rich cotton. Of course, I made it to flatter my curvy figure with pintucks in the front and back. The rounded hem falls to midthigh. I am wearing the shirt over black leggings of soft, breathable material tugged into black leather boots with a small heel.

It’s likely scandalous not to wear a corset or wide belt over the top, but either one will only enhance my breasts and cinch in at the waist, showing off the flare of my hips and most definitely be likely to catch a male’s leering eyes. Besides, I want comfort at the moment.

My feet hit the boards of the pier. My skin tingles with the charged energy in the atmosphere, and I hiss low under my breath. Of course, they celebrate the merpeople’s day of love here. I can scent the merman and mermaids in landforms amongst the crowd.

Approaching footsteps, and the deep timbre of male voices sound behind me. I panic and duck behind some crates, keeping my head low. There is no way I will try to entice a male on this day.

A deep, timbre voice causes me to involuntarily lift my head, the male in front of the group drawing my focus. He looks to be about six feet—I’m not good at judging the heights of landforms—with raven hair falling to his shoulders.

From my perception of his occupation—a pirate of the sea due to the clothes he wears—his outfit is similar to mine. His pants are a good quality leather, and his white shirt is surprisingly crisp and clean under his vest. He doesn’t wear a long coat, but the season’s heat warrants his stylistic choice.

He strides with a confident swagger, his boots falling heavily on the boardwalk, and he is flanked by two men. They are tanned from constant exposureto the sun and physically fit with broad shoulders. They are all similar in height, give or take a few inches.

The one on the right has sun-streaked blond hair, untidily pulled back and secured at the nape of his neck with lose strands surrounding his face.

The pirate on the left has black hair with golden honey-brown eyes, his skin a darker amber shade than the other two.

Each has a neatly trimmed beard.

The pirate I’m drawn to has his sleeves rolled to his elbows, exposing his sinewy forearms.

Even though he’s likely not able to see me in my hiding spot, his steely gaze sears into me before his eyes glide away.

My nostrils flare, and I catch a scent in the breeze—the masculine scent I’ve come to associate with the males of the land races. But there is something more—driftwood, the sharp tang of lemon, and the underlying notes of the brininess of home.

I know it’shis, the man who draws my attention because a flare of warmth begins unfurling low in my belly, and I groan inward.

Whereas other females may confuse that warmth for arousal, I know what it is—the trigger of my siren’s conquest—an innate part of a siren that compels her once she spots a male to seduce him.

I curse under my breath and rise from behind the barrels and boxes, my body tingling with sudden need.

My feet take me to where this man is heading away from me.

Damn, siren’s conquest.

It doesn’t work on mated males from most races in Belivar—they never bat an eye in a siren’s direction. Buthuman males are often weak, even if they are married. But if they end up being a true mate to a being from another race, then the conquest is lost before it begins. A siren doesn’t like to lose their prey once they’ve caught sight of him.

That is where our unsavory reputation comes from. It often drives sirens mad not to fulfill their conquest, and a siren will often try to lure the male to their deaths—if the siren can’t have him, no one else can.

That’s why I hate my body’s response to this particular human.

Though from his cocky swagger, smarmy grin, and no lingering female scents on him, he is not a mated male.

Good.

I can seduce him.

Fuck him.

Then escape this wretched holiday.

CHAPTER FOUR

KYNAN

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