“What were you thinking?” Azriel growled, every line of his face radiating silent, boiling rage.

He was furious. Furious at you for taking an ash arrow to the chest just to protect Lucien during that fight.

Of course, it would have killed Lucien—no doubt about it—but Azriel couldn’t bring himself to care about that. Not when the alternative was the arrow striking you. If it hadn’t missed your heart by mere inches, you’d be gone. And knowing that, knowing how close he had come to losing you… it made something inside him twist.

The image of the arrow embedding itself in your chest was now burned into his mind, repeating over and over, relentless. He could still feel the sheer terror of watching you nearly die in front of him, helpless. He had seen you jump in front of that arrow faster than he could winnow to your side, faster than he could hunt down whoever had fired it. Centuries of experience, of war and bloodshed, and he had never felt terror like that.

And it wasn’t just that. The fact that it had been to protect Lucien, of all people, only made it worse. Despite Lucien being mated and you being his, he couldn’t stop the sharp sting of jealousy twisting in his chest. Jealousy not only at your friendship, but at the way Lucien’s hands were clean, unscarred, untested by the things Azriel had endured. Jealousy at the ease with which Lucien moved through the world, while he bore the weight of it all—and still, somehow, you’d risk everything for him.

Azriel’s jaw clenched. He wanted to shake you, to scream, to make you understand just how reckless you had been. But beneath the anger, beneath the frustration, there was fear. Deep, raw, unshakable fear. Fear that next time… there might not be a next time.