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  “Erion!” Kenna seized his shoulders and shoved him back.

  Hard wood jammed into his hip, and he grabbed the table edge.

  “Erion.”

  He lifted his head and met her gaze. Tears shimmered in the hazel depths of her eyes.

  “No,” Kenna said, “don’t shut her out. Listen to her.”

  Erion shook his head in an effort to drive the crooning softness from his mind. He straightened. Beautiful glass pooled in melted ruin around them. What more proof did he need of the threat he posed? And—another crippling wave of guilt washed over him—he’d nearly consumed Kenna as he had Airiana. But he hadn’t. Why?

  He shoved aside the questions with a mental snarl. What difference did it make? He wouldn’t make the same mistake. Kenna had survived the metamorphosis. Guilt piled higher with the realization that he had burdened Fiera with the responsibility of Airiana. He hadn’t known that could happen, but he should have.

  Erion stumbled back two paces. Even now, his need for Fiera overwhelmed. “I have to go.” He turned, muscles already giving way to the weightlessness of transformation.

  “No!” She seized his arm. “You can’t just leave me here after…my God, my workshop—Airiana and I—” She choked. “Aiden was here! I felt him…before….before I changed. Then he was gone. What did I do?” She covered her mouth. “I killed him.”

  Erion grabbed her shoulders. “No. Aiden signed his death warrant when he interfered with the Giris. He meant to enslave you, Kenna. You know that. It’s why you kept him at a distance. It was him or you. I wasn’t about to let him have you.”

  Scalding fire singed him to the core.

  Fire lit in her gaze. “You can’t just fuck me, turn me into…into…”

  “I didn’t turn you into anything.”

  She glared. “What happened here required us both.”

  “The joining, yes, that took us both. The Giris—your transformation.” He shook his head. “You were on the cusp.”

  A mocking laugh rolled from her. “Semantics.”

  Erion gave her a hard shake. “Would you rather have become Aiden’s slave? Or perhaps you would have preferred I be the one destroyed in our joining?”

  Her eyes widened. Remorse dug deep, but he would not relent. She was once again a woman, and he would leave her as such to find her way safely. Erion thrust her away and collapsed in on himself, shifting into air as he jettisoned upward.

  She whirled, her head upturned toward him. “Erion!”

  She reached skyward, stretching as if she could hold wind. Her fingers glowed. Fire curled around her hand, twisting and churning into a blazing orb. Kenna screamed, dropped to her knees, and shook the flames from her fingers.

  Erion swooped downward for one last feel of her skin, even if only to feel her in wind form, then realized the folly and veered toward the door. “Don’t fight it, Fiera. It’s who you are.”

  “Don’t leave me.” The words came from Fiera, but it was Airiana’s voice he heard.

  His heart wrenched. What was wrong with him?

  Sparks lit the room. He glanced back. Kenna’s eyes blazed. Determination radiated from her being. Tightness in his swirling core unexpectedly anchored him five feet from the door, and he swirled in place like a ribbon caught on a branch.

  Impossible. What force could cage him? Memory rose of last night in her bedroom and the feeling that he was nothing more than a moth drawn to her flame. Airiana. Erion turned his senses inward. Air, Airiana’s wind, pulled at him with the ferocity of a storm, straining to connect him to Fiera’s fire—just as it had last night.

  Shock rolled over him. Airiana, above all, understood why he couldn’t stay. She had never before exerted her wind force. He hadn’t known she could. Why now? Anger shot through him. She had manipulated his thoughts. He channeled his air downward through the concrete floor and into the ground. He would tunnel through the earth if necessary. She would not alter his destiny again.

  Windows shook with the gale force of his current, and the door burst open. Erion pushed forward with all his might and blew out of Fiera’s life.

  ****

  Kenna leaped for the door. She seized the handle, fingers tightening in readiness to slam it shut. Instead, she stepped forward and closed the door with a nearly silent click, then turned. She slumped against the wood and began to shake. Fear wasn’t what immobilized her, nor doubt, but belief. Numbness washed over her in a wave. She was no longer human, and Erion wasn’t—had never been—human.

  Aiden—a prickle rose on her arms—Aiden had watched her with Erion. The anger radiating from his blue flames had fed the inferno that destroyed her work. She stared at the wreckage. Disbelief morphed into anger. The warmth of Erion’s touch, the electric hum of their mingling still remained, but the man…the Element, was gone.

  Sight of her half-melted workshop had taken her breath earlier. Now, standing alone among the ruin that touched even the farthest edges of the room, reality gripped her like a lead weight dragging her to the bottom of the ocean. This was no dream. This was a nightmare, and Erion had left her to face it alone.

  Anger flared higher. Erion had claimed he protected her. Why, then, had he left? Airiana, the female Air Element, had tried to prevent his leaving.

  Despite the oddity, Kenna closed her eyes and whispered, “Airiana, bring him back.” She waited, but only the furious beating of her heart broke the stillness. Damn him.

  A sudden knock caused her to jump away from the door.

  “Kenna!”

  She whirled toward the door. Mrs. Patrick. The old busybody lived two doors down. She must have noticed something wrong and come to investigate.

  “Kenna!” The knocking jarred the door.

  Kenna threw her weight against the wood and grabbed the knob. She glanced at her jeans and shirt across the room on the floor. If she dashed for the clothes, Mrs. Patrick would charge inside. If she locked the door, the old woman was sure to hear it and be doubly suspicious. A locked door would pale in comparison to the spectacle of melted glass. Kenna reached up and slowly clicked the deadbolt shut.

  “Kenna?”

  Leave it to the old biddy to have great hearing.

  Kenna hurried toward her clothes. “I’m in the middle of something, Mrs. Patrick.”

  “But the door.” The handle jiggled.

  “Yes, I’m working.” Kenna scooped up her shirt and slipped it over her head.

  Mrs. Patrick didn’t reply. Kenna paused, heard nothing, then tugged on her jeans and grabbed her thong panties as she started for the door. She halted. Twilight Glide.

  She spun around. An orange glob occupied the spot on the shelf where the fire-colored base, yellow half-moon with the crimson stem holding a dragon had sat. Tears stung her eyes. How could she possibly replace Twilight Glide? Her gaze caught on the rods carefully chosen for Drakaura, now melted on the shelf. The garage might as well have erupted in flames.

  She inhaled a sharp breath at the mental picture of bursting into flames at the Michael Laird Gallery during her showing. Would she have to give up her art, her friends, her life? Another thought shook her. What if she only burst into flames during sex? She paused. The thought should frighten her. Strangely, it didn’t. What did frighten her was facing this uncertain future without Erion.

  He had kept the garage from burning down. Did she need him to keep her from burning down buildings or, worse, people? Her knees weakened. She grasped the edge of the marver. Erion had protected her through this Giris, had preserved her ovens, perhaps even her life. Could she function without him? Could she—

  “Get a grip,” she snapped. Start with a shower. Get yourself together. She began to shake again. Her fingers balled into a fist as anger resurfaced along with determination.

  She’d find Erion. He had a whole lot more to explain to her. Once she’d pried the words from his mouth, she’d kick his ass. Then she would kiss him, tell him she needed him, and make him realize he couldn’t shut her out as he had Airi
ana.

  Chapter Nine

  Kenna peered out the peephole, found the walkway empty, then unlocked the door and hurried toward the house. Two minutes later, in the bathroom, she turned on the shower and stripped off jeans and T-shirt. She straightened, then cried out at the sight of her reflection in the mirror. An intense light burned in her hazel irises like a coal fire at the mouth of a bellows.

  And her hair. She touched a tangled lock of the copper-streaked mass. Was this what Erion had seen when his cock was buried deep inside her? With trembling fingers, she began at her collarbone and traced a line downward along skin that glowed as if baked in the summer sun until she cupped her full breasts. Nipples beaded. Reds, copper, and oranges danced beneath the surface of her skin.

  She sucked in a breath, suddenly aware of a warming deep inside just below her bellybutton. She released her breasts and flattened a palm over the spot. An answering pulse of muted yellow burst out around the hand like a tiny bomb blast. Kenna yanked back her hand and stared. Erion had drawn her into another world, a fantastical world…his world. Yet, a world she didn’t understand.

  Slowly, she again covered the warm place on her belly and closed her eyes. She startled at the unexpected vision of Erion, broad shoulders, bronzed torso, and long, dark hair. His smile, the slight dimple in his left cheek, the way his eyes moved over her while she worked.

  Blood rushed through her veins and into her pounding heart. How could she need him again when only moments ago he’d filled, stretched, breathed into her? Her tummy swooped as she recalled the strain in his jaw when he’d plunged his cock deep inside, over and over, until he erupted in ecstasy. Kenna slipped a finger into the thatch of copper curls between her legs, tracing the moist seam of her pussy lips.

  “Erion,” she whispered, parting her folds and grazing her clit with a fingertip.

  Heat traveled her spine with lightning speed. She snapped open her eyes and drew in a sharp breath at the sight of amber streaks that veined out beneath her cheeks. If she ignited here in the bathroom, she would burn down her grandmother’s house. Erion! Where was Erion? How did she stop this? Could she stop this? Fear clawed at her psyche. She didn’t want this, didn’t want heat coursing through her like she was some boiling volcano. Closing her eyes, she wished away the fire, the intense flames stoking in her core. Slowly, she opened her eyes and stared at the stranger in the mirror. That’s not me. Panic threatened to overwhelm her.

  She shoved aside the shower curtain and nearly fell into the claw-footed tub in her frenzy to get under the spray of water. Cool water beaded, then sizzled across her skin like thousands of tiny dancing molecules. Head bowed, she stood unmoving under the water, unwilling and afraid to end the pleasurable sensation. Steam clouded the room.

  At last, Kenna cautiously tipped her face upward toward the showerhead. Water washed over her as naturally as it had for the last twenty-seven years. Her skin cooled, and the trembling inside began to subside. She lathered and rinsed her hair, then grabbed the loofah and soaped it with body wash.

  Erion had called her Fiera. Kenna lathered her shoulders, then worked her way down. She’d felt the rightness of the name, just as she’d felt the rightness of opening herself to him. She slowed in washing her belly. If her body never again reacted as fire, would the last few hours fade into the familiar but distant experience that all dreams became?

  She slid the loofah across her flesh and around the curve of her hips. Would the memory of Erion fade? She hadn’t just reveled in the way he touched her body. There was an intrinsic connection. She’d known him in her dreams…and at first glance. She couldn’t explain it any more than she could explain the flames burning within her. It simply was.

  Tipping her soapy head back into the water, she allowed the bubbles to rinse away. Tears unexpectedly sprang to her eyes. Aiden. A choked sob broke the soft drizzle of water over her body. Erion was right. Aiden would have killed him and enslaved her. But that didn’t change the fact that she’d taken a life. Human or Element, she’d burned whatever he was when she’d changed. Not that she’d been able to control the fire in her, but she hadn’t thought herself capable of that, no matter what—and she hadn’t been. She hadn’t been given a choice.

  Was that how her brother Jared felt? Had he been forced to kill? She remembered his visit four years ago, and the haunted look in his eyes that told her he’d ended a man’s life. His refusal to talk about it confirmed the truth. That look had never quite gone away. How would—

  She fumbled with the loofah, then froze, chest tight with awareness. Someone was in the house. Not the house, the garage. How could she know this? She didn’t know how she knew, but there was no doubt. Cold threaded through her. She hadn’t locked the workshop. If Mrs. Patrick had gone snooping…A flush of fear displaced the cold. The intruder wasn’t Mrs. Patrick. Aiden? But his presence had faded into the flames. She’d felt him simmer and dissolve. He was dead. So who was in the garage?

  Kenna twisted the water handles to the off position. The pounding of her heart thundered in the silence. She quickly stepped from the tub and slipped on the jeans and T-shirt she’d worn earlier. Ignoring the water that dripped from her hair and drenched her back, she crept down the stairs, careful to avoid the steps that creaked. In the kitchen doorway, she halted and stared at the door leading outside. Blood rushed through her ears with the force of Niagara Falls. The get-a-hold-of-yourself shower hadn’t done a damn bit of good. She tamped down the fear, forced her legs into action, and crossed to the door.

  “Mrs. Patrick?” Kenna opened the door a crack.

  The space between the walkway and garage was empty. Clouds had rolled in, and the early afternoon sky threatened rain. Wind whistled in the trees, rustling the leaves. The soft sound, usually soothing, sent chills over her wet skin. She opened the door wide enough to squeeze through and hurried to the garage. With a shaky hand, she grasped the knob and inched open the door.

  Kenna scanned the room. Everything looked as it had twenty minutes ago. Relief was displaced by the realization that the tightening in her chest remained. She strained her ears for sounds of breathing or movement, but heard only the pounding of her heart. Could she turn to fire at will? She eased inside, her gaze on the furnaces large enough to hide three men, and inched to the left in an effort to see around the mammoth pieces of metal.

  Arms’ length from the marver, she glimpsed blond hair an instant before the man shot from behind the crucible furnace, headed toward the door. Tight jeans and a leather jacket accentuated the menace of his lean, six-foot-two-inch frame.

  Kenna screamed, and her fingers burned. Flames sprang up and raced along her arms toward her chest. Terror ripped through her. She was burning up. Erion! How did she stop the fire? What should she do? She jerked her gaze to the shelves for something to throw at the intruder. The heat abruptly focused into a tightening orb.

  Heat singed her fingertips as a ball of fire combusted to life in her right hand. Adrenaline rocketed through her. She cried out, flinging the fire from her hand. The blazing orb arced across the space as the heat surged hotter. Oh God, she had weapons. She was the weapon! What else hadn’t Erion told her?

  “Stay back,” she shouted as another ball of fire formed in her hand. Oh hell, she held fire, but what to do with it? “Stay back or…or else.”

  Another man leaped from behind the annealing furnace. “Kenna!”

  She jerked in his direction. On instinct, she hurled the sphere of fire. Flames exploded on the concrete between them. Emerald green eyes glinted behind the wall of fire an instant before he twisted aside, shielding his eyes with a hand.

  He backed away from the blaze. “We’re here to help!”

  Another ball of fire rose in her palm. Help? “Who are you?”

  A mighty animal roar sounded near the door. Kenna spun toward the sound. She stumbled back a step. The magical beast of her dreams stood where the leather-wearing Adonis had been an instant ago. She stared at the apparition in all its brillia
nt colors. From its feathered head to a tail that thinned to twine-like thickness with half a dozen long feathers at the tip, the dragon towered over her.

  Drakaura.

  As if in answer to her thoughts, the creature spread its eight-foot feathered wings and roared again. Kenna fought dizzying blackness. His body went taut, wings rigid as stone while a filmy wall of white light shot from his chest and surrounded the wall of fire. The flames died with barely a whimper.

  The blaze in her palm pulsed. His wings fluttered. Kenna tensed, but he dropped his wings and tucked them along his feathery, scaled sides.

  “Ormond,” the man admonished.

  The dragon blinked large green eyes, then shrank and shifted back into human form.

  The room spun. Pressure pounded at her temples. Her knees buckled, and she dropped to the concrete floor, palms breaking the fall and scraping on rough concrete.

  “Who—what—are you?”

  Ormond stepped forward, and her core warmed in unison with another pulse from the fireball in her palm as she shoved up onto shaky legs.

  He halted and gave a slow nod. “Yes. We are Drakaura.”

  The murmured words held an understanding that struck a chord deep inside her.

  “Kenna,” the other man said.

  She shot the dragon man a warning look, then shifted her attention back.

  “The fire.” He nodded at her palm.

  Kenna glanced at the flame. She took a deep cleansing breath and willed the fire away. The flickering heat seemed to melt back into her palm, and the glow dimmed to a barely banked amber glow, as if she’d turned off the gas valve on her furnace. A strange excitement quivered in her stomach. Was controlling the fire that easy?

  “Forgive us,” he said.

  She jerked from staring at her palm and focused on the man again.

  “When you left your workshop, we had no idea you would return so soon.”

  Anger hit like a bucket of ice water. “Who the hell are you, and what are you doing in my garage? This is my house!”