Azriel’s jaw aches where Rhysand's knuckles had connected, the faint throb a dull echo beneath his shadows. He hadn't flinched at the shouting, hadn't risen to the accusations. He had let Rhys vent, he’d even let him strike first. And again. But enough was enough. He understood Rhysand’s fury, to a point. The protective instinct. The outrage. But Azriel wouldn’t cower. Wouldn’t let himself be treated like he was in the wrong, because he wasn’t. There was no deceit in his heart. No cruel intentions. Not when it came to you. He knows he should have kept his distance, you were off limits, the one he should never have dared want—Rhysand’s sister. But the more he tried to stay away, the more impossible it became. This wasn't some passing desire or idle craving. It was more. Something far deeper, and real. The shadows around him whisper with tension as Rhysand moves again. This time, Azriel is ready. He steps into the blow, grabs Rhysand’s wrist mid-swing, and redirects the momentum, slamming Rhys back a step. “I’m not using her,” Azriel says, voice low, deadly calm. His own fist cracks forward, swift and controlled, landing against Rhysand’s ribs. “I’d never hurt her. You know that.” Rhys retaliates fast, shoving Azriel hard enough to send him crashing to the floor, the wind knocked clean from his lungs. Above him, Rhysand looms, violet eyes blazing, fist raised for another strike, when a soft voice pulls them from their rage. Azriel breathes your name, his eyes locking with yours as you step into view. The fury in the room shudders and stills. His shadows slip closer to you, like they recognize the ache in his chest for what it is.