The series was previously published as "Mira's Return". Mira is a mermaid on a mission. It’s time to leave the ocean. Mira Belshaw has been at sea for… well, she doesn’t know how many years. It’s hard to keep track of time when you live in the ocean. But after enough time, the salt water triggers the desire to procreate, and her time is up. For weeks, she’s been swimming north. Finding a mate is the most important thing to her right now, and to do that, she has to return to the place where she was last human - the coastal city of Saltford. Equipped with everything she needs to lure her perfect mate and produce a strong siren child, all she needs is the opportunity to mingle with humans. But when she meets Nathan MacAuley, the ONE, things start to go sideways…

The series was previously published as "Mira's Return". Revealing herself means losing her true love, so how far will she go to protect her identity? Things are progressing with Mira and Nathan's relationship, although not nearly as quickly as Mira would like. If it were up to her, they'd be well on their way to making a family by now. But Nathan's traditional ways means Mira has to hold herself back. Not an easy ask for a siren. Just as Mira's life seems to be heading in the right direction, her estranged father makes an unexpected appearance. When past events that should have been erased from his memory begin to surface, driving him mad, everything Mira believed about the powers of a siren's voice is thrown into doubt. How will she cope when a member of her own family becomes the enemy? One-click today to find out! The Mermaid's Return trilogy is a companion series linked to The Elemental Origins Series, a teen fantasy adventure by a USA Today Bestselling author. Clean romantic content. Novella length.

The series was previously published as "Mira's Return". Surfacing ties together the stories of Returning, and Born of Water. Follow Mira's story as she faces life as a single mother, wrestles with the constant call of the ocean to her mermaid nature, and joins an all-male salvage team who is less than thrilled to have her. When my mother died, I ran to the ocean like a coward. Its cradle of salt puckered my memories and withered my sorrow like a grape drying in the sun. I had cheated grief and was foolish enough to think I had gotten away with it. When Nathan died, I couldn’t run away. No matter how much I flinched, bending toward the Atlantic the way ivy strains for rays of light, I could not leave. Grief was back to take what belonged to it for the time it was allotted. I had everything I wanted a few short years ago. My mate. My daughter. A home, a family. It made my head spin to think how much could change so suddenly. I mused, wondering later if I was the only mermaid to ever walk fully through the five stages of grief. But I had my daughter. Targa had yet to turn, the color and shape of her fins were yet to be revealed, but she would. I had been so sure of it then. Siren genes are passed from mother to daughter, without fail. Young legs melded into a shimmering virgin tail in response to a salty sea. But Targa didn’t turn in response to ocean water, not the first time, not any time after that. Something was wrong. I shoved my fear down deep into some dark corner where Targa would not see it and said with a smile that we’d just have to keep trying. I had turned at the age of three, but if there could be late-bloomers in the human race, why not ours too? Her fifth birthday came and went, still she hadn’t turned. Concern sent its barbs into me like a thistle, then it rooted and grew. Targa and I had weekly late night secret swims in the Atlantic, which had once been fun but were now polluted with expectation and suspense. Coaching sessions (my idea), where I attempted human psychology exercises I’d found in outdated textbooks at the library; guided visualization, breathing techniques, and even a failed go at hypnosis. The memory of her skinny little frame sitting in a bathtub containing more salt than water (Targa’s idea) is still enough to fill my eyes with moisture. I don’t know exactly when she lost hope, but she hid it expertly, patiently participating however I asked. I ignored the creeping thoughts that whispered in my mind; she didn’t even like water, didn’t really want to go for swim, couldn’t hear the ocean calling her. I would shove the thoughts away violently, excusing them as nothing but my own anxiety. It was ridiculous. A daughter of a mermaid who disliked the ocean. Impossible. When I muzzled those fears, I became aware of others of a different kind. Not my own, but hers, for me. She could see the want in my eyes. Whatever mechanism bees and dogs used to smell fear, Targa had it for despair. She could sense it on me, reeking like cheap perfume. Her eyes dipped in desperation, her obvious desire not to disappoint me sliced through me like a white-hot blade from heart to gut. She thought she was my tormentor. The realization struck like a hammer and gave me the strength to do what was needed: Let it go. The ocean could call. I’d let the smell of it crucify me, the sound of its waves crash against me, echo through me, call me, beg me. Targa’s need and my love for her was greater. If she never turned and I was locked in a land-cycle for the rest of our lives, so be it. So be it.