In the mirror, he saw wet, stringy waves of hair hanging like seaweed about his face, two days’ worth of golden-brown stubble, dark smudges like kohl under his tired, blue eyes and worse, he could clearly see the painting on the opposite wall. Waterhouse’s ‘The Siren’. Shit.
There she sat on her rocks of doom, long mahogany hair streaming down towards the wretched fellow who clung there in vain, too focused on her to be aware that he was drowning in the water. A wave of nausea pulled Bran under. The look on the guy’s face. He fucking knew that feeling, utter terror, mixed with an all-consuming, yearning fascination.
– Bran, coming to unhappy terms with his Ava obsession, Siren’s Wave Novel by J.A. Hazel.