“No. Nothing,” I say firmly. “Bit warm, that’s all.” I feel buzzed, though, like I’ve downed a few vodkas.

Zahir and Flanagan share a look.

“Continue, Captain Seonu,” Zahir orders.

Seonu throws me a stinging glare before addressing the head trainer. “I’m sorry, Major, I’m out. If I use any more, I won’t be able to shift tonight.”

She’s a Shifter, then. I wonder what kind. Something fierce. Though her thick black eyebrows do bring to mind a disgruntled crow.

“That’s fine, Captain,” Zahir says. “I can take over.”

She leaves the room and enters the observation space. Laasya smiles when I catch her eyes. Quinton watches intently, a hand resting on his chin, his brow tight. Mason’s face resembles a small storm. If looks could kill, I’d be sausage meat.

Zahir steps forward, his huge size blocking my view of the observation room. He offers me a warm smile and dips into the same low stance as Seonu, feet spread wide.

His golden eyes spark. “Let’s find your edge, shall we?”

“Bring it on,” I say with a grin. I like Zahir’s playful glint, but I bet the big guy has a lot more power up his sleeve than Seonu.

His lower arms ignite, Flame streaking through the air as he performs the katas with an unexpected grace. The long ropes of his hair sway across broad shoulders. Even though half his arms lick with fire, no light casts into the dimly lit space. It’s as if the Flame isn’t really there. He generates a massive orb of silver-white energy, more dense and agitated than Seonu’s.

I grasp the leather straps and grit my teeth. This one might sting.

He sends the ball of fire toward me with barely a nudge, but the hit drives me back against the brick. The burn floods my whole body. I close my eyes while heat sizzles the length of my veins. But the feeling settles, leaving me warm and swaying on the straps.

“Are you okay, Michael?” Flanagan’s husky baritone.

I offer a floppy nod.

Zahir sends two more of those light balls my way. The heat grows stronger each time. A pressure builds in my lower back. The trail of liquid burning along my spine fizzles and stings. It’s not unbearable, though—nowhere near the scorching agony I experienced in the cage. In fact, it feels good. I feel good. My thoughts slide around like I’ve been mixing spirits, and my stiffy might be swelling in front of everyone, but I can’t find it in myself to care.

While Zahir generates yet another giant orb with his moves, my attention wanders to Flanagan. He’s watching me intensely, arms folded, biceps bulging. The clinging suede of his trousers hugs every delicious curve of his wide thighs.