Page 8 of Siren (The Enigma Affairs #1)

SIX

J asmine raised a brow. “You rehearsing that line for him or yourself?”

I smirked, but the truth was, I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince because ever since I met him at the gallery—with that quiet intensity, the way he studied me like he already knew the parts I tried to hide—I’d been off balance .

I’d told myself he was just another artist. Another collab. Another talented man with good bone structure and a deep voice. But something about him unsettled me.

Not in a bad way.

In the kind of way that makes you wonder if you’re about to do something reckless.

Jasmine laughed, not missing a beat. “You couldn’t stop talking about him last night, so chill out.”

I adjusted my cashmere coat with one hand, pushing through the studio doors. “That was just commentary. I’m a vocalist. I talk.”

What I didn’t say—what I hadn’t stopped thinking—was how Taraj had stayed with me.

That subtle kiss on the hand. The pressure of his soft lips.

That look he gave me. That quiet confidence that didn’t try to sell itself.

And maybe because it wasn’t performative, it found its way deeper.

Settled in my bloodstream like a note you couldn’t unhear.

I hadn’t meant to tell Jas all of that. But I’d been off rhythm after the gallery, and she always knew how to catch the beat behind my words.

“You let it slip,” she teased now. “So now I’m holding you accountable.”

I sighed, stepping into the elevator. “I really wish I hadn’t said all that.”

She chuckled. “You did. Which means it struck you. I’m not saying fall for the man. I’m saying don’t pretend he didn’t rattle your cage a little.”

“He didn’t.”

“Mmm.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Manufactured is not music, Jas. And this entire arrangement feels... dressed up. Like we’re costumes for someone else’s vision.”

“But you said he didn’t feel fake.”

I didn’t answer.

She softened her tone. “Look, I know how much you’ve sacrificed for this career. I know how hard it’s been to maintain your voice and your boundaries. All I’m saying is—you’re allowed to explore new chemistry. Even if it’s temporary.”

I exhaled. “You’re right.”

“Course I am. Now go do what you do, Enna.”

The elevator dinged. I stepped into the hallway and tucked my phone into my coat pocket.

I’d already promised myself I wouldn’t let this session throw me off.

But that didn’t mean I wasn’t bracing for it.

The hallway smelled faintly of pine cleaner and incense trying to cover the sent of buddha. Posters of platinum albums lined the walls like ghosts of legends past.

And then—he turned the corner. Same slow, deliberate gait. Hoodie hanging open. Chain low. Bracelet catching light as he tugged at his sleeve. Effortless in a way that made time shift around him. Like the air moved to accommodate his presence.

His eyes found mine like they already knew the path. Slow drag. No urgency. No apology. Just heat—raw and sure—sliding over my skin until I felt it everywhere. Across my collarbone. Down my spine. Between my thighs.

My breath hitched. Nipples tightened. Core clenched so fast it made me shift my stance.

I held my phone to my ear like armor. Like I wasn’t standing there feeling his gaze press into me, soft and firm at the same time. Like a palm between my thighs, testing my patience.

He didn’t smile. Just looked. And I looked back.

One beat. Two. Long enough for the air to charge between us. For the burn to register.

Then he rounded the opposite end of the hallway, disappearing like he hadn’t just taken my body with him .

But I was still there. Still pulsating. Still soaked in the moment.

Still aching for more. More of what, my mind couldn’t intellectualize. It was a vibe and a pulse my body seemed to be chasing without my permission.

Inside the studio, the air felt different.

Dim lights brushed every surface in amber, casting soft shadows that whispered possibility. The kind of space you could lay vocals… or bury secrets.

Amir rose from the couch with that signature ease, smile carved slow like he’d already read the undercurrent in the room.

“Sienna,” he said, voice smooth, hand outstretched. “Glad you made it.”

His grip was firm. Professional. But there was depth in his gaze—like he could hear the echo of something between me and Taraj before either of us spoke.

My manager had been singing Amir’s praises for months.

Called him a sound sculptor. Said he could touch the core of a voice and make it confess truths it hadn’t even named.

I’d heard what he did with Taraj. But it was the smaller projects that really grabbed me—those raw, hungry artists he shaped into something untamed and golden.

Quietly, I’d hoped that one day—after the press cycles died down and the label stopped puppeteering—I’d get to work with him on something real . Just me and the music. Nothing performative. Nothing pretend.

Myles gave a nod from the booth. “Anything you need, I got you.”

I liked his energy instantly. Grounded. Clean. He didn’t need to fill silence with noise. Engineers like that? Rare as hell.

Amir tilted his head toward the couch where Taraj now sat—hoodie gone, skin golden under studio light, his forearm draped casually over his knee like he owned every beat in the room .

“Y’all already got acquainted,” Amir said, eyes dancing with that kind of knowing you couldn’t fake.

“Briefly,” I replied, keeping it neutral.

Taraj looked up. His gaze landed on me like pressure—steady and slow. “Good to see you again.”

The sound of his voice moved through me like bass through bone. Deep. Controlled. A seduction wrapped in restraint.

“Likewise,” I said, though my tone came out softer than I meant. Then I turned to the mic, hoping movement would ground me.

Focus, Sienna. You’re here for the music. Not his mouth. Not his voice. Not the way his hands would feel on your hips.

Amir looked between us. “So here’s what I’m thinking,” he said, settling onto the edge of the couch. “A stripped ballad. Heavy on emotion. Not too polished—just real. Raw edges. Let the track feel like longing.”

I nodded slowly. “You thinking layered vocals or minimal harmony?”

“Minimal,” Amir said. “Give it space to ache.”

He looked at Taraj. “You still got those lyrics you scribbled last week?”

Taraj reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a folded sheet. “Been hearing her voice on this since the first line.”

I arched a brow. “Yeah?”

He shrugged, that quiet confidence on full display. “Tell me if I’m wrong.”

He handed the paper to Amir, who skimmed it, then handed it to me.

I read:

“You weren’t a phase

You weren’t a song

You were the silence afte r

And the space I never belonged…”

Something clicked in my chest.

I didn’t need the whole verse to know it.

“Play something,” I whispered, stepping to the mic.

Amir cued the track.

A slow bassline slid in like it knew what it was doing—slick, dark, sensual. Synths unfurled behind it like silk sheets pulled back by want. But there was restraint too. It didn’t build—it hovered .

I closed my eyes and hummed what felt natural.

Just a melody at first—low, breathy, unsure. Then stronger. Rising like smoke around the chords. I didn’t even form words yet. Just sounds. Shapes of sorrow and sweetness curled into tune.

Beside the glass, Taraj nodded slowly. Then picked up a pen again.

Amir leaned forward. “She just gave us the hook,” he murmured. “Don’t even change it.”

I opened my eyes.

“Y’all want a name for this?” Amir asked, glancing between us.

Taraj didn’t hesitate. “ Dangerous Thing. ”

I blinked.

He looked at me. “That’s what this is about, right? The way something soft can undo you.”

I exhaled, because yes . That was it. That was the thing I hadn’t known how to say.

We locked eyes.

“Yeah,” I murmured. “Let’s call it that.”

Amir smiled, already pulling the track stems together. “Let’s make it live.”

I closed my eyes. Breathed. Let the rhythm lick over me. Then I opened my mouth.

“I feel you in the silence

In the breath between the lines

You touch me like a memory

And leave me every time…”

The last note stretched long, thin, aching.

I sang it again. Softer this time. Drew the word leave out until it nearly broke. Until I almost did.

Behind the glass, I caught Amir lean back like he’d felt it in his spine. Myles twisted a dial. And Taraj—he didn’t move. Just stared like he was watching something bloom.

Then he stood and crossed the space like the floor didn’t exist. Quiet steps. Intentional hands.

He stepped into the booth with me without saying a word.

Just a bottle of water pressed into my hand and fingers on the mic stand, adjusting it like it was muscle memory. Like he was used to touching things into place.

“Thanks,” I murmured. My voice wasn’t quiet—it was exposed .

“Your tone,” he said, leaning close enough that I felt the words ghost across my cheek. “It doesn’t just land. It lingers.”

The way he lingered. Like that night at the gallery. Like this morning in the hallway. Like every second since.

He stepped back—but not far.

The instrumental restarted. And then he crooned out his verse.

“You haunt my hands

Every time I reach for sleep

Your name don’t echo in the room

But it echoes in me…”

Each word poured like smoke. Deep. Unbothered. Sensual like it wasn’t trying to be .

He glanced over, voice still velvet. “You wanna come in on the hook?”

I stepped forward. The mic rose to meet me like it knew what I needed.

“Don’t speak it

Don’t name it

Let it stay wild

Let it stay dangerous…”

Our eyes met. Again. And that time it hit different.

Because we weren’t just laying down vocals. We were pushing up against something that hadn’t been touched yet—but wanted to be.

That’s when Amir’s voice came through the speaker. “Y’all ready to take that from the top?”

We didn’t look away.

“Yeah,” we said at the same time…