The Siren Series 3: Brandon (A Siren Novel) Read Online Free PDF Page A

specimen of man.
    Ren always keeps his distance though. A Harborer and a Druid witch aren’t allowed to be involved romantically. It's like a Catholic priest not taking a wife because somehow it distracts him from his work with God.
    A Harborer guards the witch. Period.
    I sit up and try not to think about Ren and how he keeps saving my ass. Or the I-want-to-eat-him mystery dream guy.
    In fact, I'm trying not to think about how horny I've been lately.
    Good luck with that.
    It's bad news for a witch to not be discerning about who she screws. Human males are all fine to scratch that itch—I can't get venereal diseases anyway—but Grammy said I needed to save myself for a Druid male.
    The question I posed was where was he ? She had shaken her head when I asked. Like Druid females, the males are as rare as hen's teeth.
    So I'm what? Supposed to hold on to my cherry until I'm nursing-home material? No.
    I'm ready.
    But right now, I'm surviving.
    I fold my arms, scanning Ren's tiny apartment and a small giggle escapes.
    “Not funny, Nova.”
    He walks over to the stove, and I admire his tight ass and broad shoulders. As I take in the familiar four walls, I decide his interior decorating could use a little help.
    His ancient swords and weapons hanging on the walls are somewhat medieval. Of course, Ren is three hundred years old, so it stands to reason he'd have ancient weaponry.
    “They weren't just vampires,” I say.
    He doesn't turn from preparing tea. His large hands wrap around the edges of the stove as he waits for the water to boil. “I was hoping you'd just say the circus came to town. That would explain the pro-wrestlers with only half their clothes on in the middle of the street.”
    “Nope.”
    The whistle shrills, and Ren takes the kettle off the stove top. He carefully pours scalding water into a ridiculously small cup before he pivots with the grace of a dancer and brings me the delicate cup and saucer. It seems so small in his hand.
    He sets the tea on a low, beat-up coffee table and folds his tall frame into the broad, overstuffed chair opposite me. His long arms follow the back of the chair, and he exhales in a rush. “So… Reapers?”
    I sigh. “Yeah.”
    “Figured.”
    His expression falls into grim lines. “It's time, Nova—past time. It was only a matter of when you’d be in cycle for some supe to scent you.
    “Not any supe—Reapers. Grammy told me—”
    His full lips thin. “She never left the safety of her home. Nova, she was not the spell weaver you are.”
    I duck my head, my hair falling forward to hide my sadness over Grammy's death. It's been six years, but still feels so fresh.
    Ren leans forward and I look up, his intense stare capturing my gaze. “I know that, Ren.”
    “No disrespect to Hazel, but she didn't need the guarding you do.”
    “Where's Grammy's guard now?” I’ve always wondered, but I never asked.
    Ren's gaze slides to the left. “Guarding another Druid.”
    Looks like evasion to me.
    His eyes move over my body. “Are you hurt?”
    “No! I'm fine.”
    The silence is heavy between us.
    “I'm sorry,” I say. “I know it was a shock.”
    His stare accuses me. “I give you a ride home for a reason. We had a near-riot inside the tavern, and suddenly you'd left...”
    “I left because they were throwing food at me.”
    Ren's lips quirk.
    “Not funny, asshole.”
    He laughs from his belly.
    Dick.
    I toss a pillow at him.
    His hand snaps up and catches it.
    Ren leaps over the table, and I squeal. He wraps his arms around me. “Don't move, Nova, or I'll have to smother you with the pillow.”
    Our eyes are inches away from each other. Heat beats between us.
    “You're not a very good guard.”
    Emotions wash over his features. “No,” he says in a curt word of dismal agreement.
    “Please... ease me, Ren,” I whisper, thrusting my aching breasts against his chest.
    His forehead touches mine. “I have taken a vow. You of all people know how serious it is. I am