"No, actually. He's completely untouched. I didn't even land a punch." He adjusts his glasses, which sit slightly crooked across his nose. "Just another day of getting my ass handed to me in sparring."

“Join the club,” I say.

We all chuckle, but our laughter is cut short by the appearance of the fire offerings.

Raith walks at the front, and the others follow him in a tight group. The white offering uniform does absolutely nothing to hide the way his rows upon rows of muscles move beneath the fabric, fluid and powerful like some ancient predator. His scarred face and neck only add to the impression of barely contained danger. I force my eyes away, trying and failing to ignore the way my body reacts to him.

Skin flushed hot. A light sweat. Pounding heart. A pool of heat gathering in my lower belly.

He sits right behind the aspirants, and the other fires file in on either side of him, leaving an empty seat to his right and left, as if out of deference.

The dynamic within the water offerings is chaotic, with small packs of wolves and a larger group of—for lack of a better word—sheep.

The fires are a much smaller group, and they've already fallen into a military-like organization, with Raith as the apparent high commander.

The airs, as far as I can tell, get along better as a whole. If nothing else, fewer of them have died in training and I don’t see as much open hostility.

The earths keep to themselves, but the aura of general suspicion around airs and fires means people generally don’t make an effort to get to know them. Then again, everybody is too busy trying to stay alive to worry much about making friends.

"Can you believe that guy?" Ambrose asks. Like everybody else in white, he's watching Raith.

"Asshole," I say, as if agreeing with Ambrose's unspoken assessment.

"Asshole," Mireen agrees. She tucks a strand of copper hair behind her ear. "Very, very hot. But yes, an asshole."

I snort and shake my head, trying not to stare at the way Raith's broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist or how his hands—large enough to crush a throat without effort—are casually propped on the desk before him.