Page 1 of Heart of the Rebel Mate (Wolf Billionaire #5)
CHAPTER 1
ELARA
T he light on my phone screen blinks 7:48 PM.
Fuck! I'm late!
Juggling my tablet, a half-empty coffee mug, and a tangle of keys, I race through my apartment, spacious but with an obstacle course of books, blueprints, and a precarious stack of grading papers from the university where I teach architecture. My dress, a deep emerald green that's supposed to exude sophistication, now looks more like the victim of a long day at work. Wrinkles crease the fabric, and my heels—still in the shoebox—stare at me from under the dining table.
"Fucking perfect," I mutter, balancing the coffee on my tablet as I pull the shoes free. The motion sends a red pen rolling off the table, marking a streak across the hardwood. "Absolutely perfect."
The messy bun I'd twisted hours ago now teeters on the edge of complete collapse. A few strands have rebelled, framing my face in a way that isn't remotely deliberate. I shove bobby pins into place, wincing as they poke my scalp.
A soft chime alerts me to a text from Zara, my best friend and unofficial pep talker.
Zara: Almost showtime! Don't forget to smile. They love confident Elara.
"Confident Elara," I echo, stuffing my tablet into my bag and shoving my feet into the heels. A wobble and a curse later, I grab my coat and race out the door.
The gala is held in one of the city's most extravagant venues, a sprawling glass structure that reflects the evening's golden glow. It's a fitting choice for a night that's supposed to celebrate innovation and progress. My project—a sustainable city hub designed to bridge the growing divide between humans and werewolves—is among the evening's main attractions.
That divide has always been there, looming like a crack in a foundation no one knows how to fix. As a werewolf, I've felt it my whole life—subtle reminders woven into daily interactions. Humans who hesitate when they learn what I am, neighbors who lower their voices when the Council is mentioned, even professors during my university years who seemed to grade me just a little harsher than others. The Treaty of Concord may have ended the bloodshed, but it didn't erase the mistrust.
The Werewolf Council looms over everything, shaping our lives even from a distance. I know they're not fond of humans—something they've never made a secret of—and that their decisions often put them at odds with human governments, universities, and corporations. My university, for example, has clashed with the Council on numerous occasions. The details are murky to me, but the tension is impossible to ignore. It's in the way colleagues whisper about denied funding or grumble about red tape whenever a project touches Council-approved territory.
Walking into the foyer, I barely make it two steps before I hear, "Elara! Finally!" It's Dr. Lowell, my department head, striding toward me with a mix of relief and exasperation. His sharp suit and silver hair make him look every bit the picture of authority. "What kept you?" he demands, ushering me toward the main hall.
"Lost track of time grading papers," I admit, glancing down at my wrinkled dress.
Dr. Lowell pinches the bridge of his nose. "Just hurry, Elara. They've already started assembling at the podium. This is your project—you're the one they want to hear from. Don't let them think the university isn't serious about this."
Two colleagues, Marissa and Jonathan, fall in step beside me. Marissa adjusts her glasses, casting me a nervous smile. "We've been holding them off with the preliminary visuals, but they're asking for you. Dr. Lowell's been spinning gold, but..."
"...but they need to see the visionary," Jonathan finishes, his tone teasing but supportive.
I nod, clutching my tablet as Marissa hands me a bottle of water.
Reaching the podium, I take a deep breath, my pulse pounding as the crowd turns toward me. My colleagues step back, their presence fading into the background as the holographic model of the sustainable hub spins on the screen behind me. Its sleek lines, cascading rooftop gardens, and interconnected pathways glimmer under the spotlight, a visual representation of years of meticulous work.
"This project," I begin, my voice steady despite the nerves fluttering in my chest, "is an effort to bridge the gap between humans and werewolves, to create a shared space where differences don't divide us but strengthen us."
The hologram zooms into the central core, a glass structure encased in a lattice of solar panels that seem to shimmer even in this simulated setting. "At its heart," I continue, gesturing to the display, "is the Unity Dome, a space designed for dialogue and collaboration. It serves as a neutral ground for both species, symbolizing the transparency and trust we hope to build."
Another section of the model expands—residential units with rooftops alive with greenery. "The living quarters blend urban design with natural harmony, featuring rooftop gardens, shared greenhouses, and adaptable interiors to meet the needs of both humans and werewolves."
I pause, watching as the hologram shifts to the hub's lower levels. The intricate network of tunnels and private corridors comes into focus. "For werewolves, we've included subterranean pathways to allow privacy and freedom of movement during transformations. These spaces are not an afterthought but an integral part of the design, ensuring dignity and functionality for everyone."
A smaller screen beside me lights up, showing the hub's energy systems. "This entire structure is powered by renewable energy sources—solar, geothermal, and wind—making it a self-sufficient, sustainable model for the future."
I glance briefly at the crowd, catching sight of the university chancellor in the front row. His subtle nod bolsters me as I finish, "This isn't just an architectural concept. It's a step toward coexistence, a demonstration of what we can achieve when we stop building barriers and start building bridges."
The room is quiet for a beat, the weight of the moment hanging over the audience like a held breath. I open my mouth to continue, but movement at the edge of my vision catches my attention. A figure enters the hall, slipping into the crowd near the side of the room with an ease that makes me pause. I can't make out much—a tall frame, a tailored suit—but something about him pulls at me, sharp and insistent. My chest tightens, but I shove the feeling aside, forcing myself to focus on the hologram spinning behind me.
I step aside to let the display take center stage, the image shifting to highlight environmental benefits and community impact. The lines of the design are clean, deliberate, the balance between urban space and greenery drawing the audience's attention. My pulse begins to steady as I find my rhythm again, readying myself for the questions I know will come.
One does—too soon, too cutting.
"How do you plan to enforce coexistence when history proves that harmony is... elusive?" The voice is low, smooth, carrying enough weight to slice through the murmurs of the crowd.
I look up, and the air around me seems to thicken. He stands near the edge of the audience now, his posture relaxed but his gaze anything but. Dark eyes lock on mine, sharp and unyielding, and for a moment, the rest of the room fades. He tilts his head slightly, as if appraising me, the faintest curve of his mouth suggesting either amusement or challenge. My breath hitches, my chest tightening with a pang that feels more physical than emotional.
The pause stretches longer than it should, my mind scrambling to restart. I blink, heat creeping up my neck as I realize he's still watching me, one brow lifted ever so slightly. "Uh..." My voice falters before I clear my throat, forcing my scattered thoughts back into some semblance of order. "Through structure and opportunity," I finally manage, my words stiff at first before gathering momentum. I focus on his gaze, intense and unyielding, as though he's dissecting every syllable. "The hub isn't about forcing harmony; it's about creating the conditions where it can naturally emerge. Shared spaces, sustainable systems, and equal representation—those are the foundations."
For a fleeting moment, as I meet his eyes, something flickers in my chest. A warmth, faint but undeniable, spreads like an ember catching light. It's gone almost as quickly as it appears, leaving me questioning whether I imagined it altogether.
His lips curve, not quite a smile, just a subtle shift that hints at amusement. "And what about enforcement?" he asks, his voice smooth but edged with steel. "Won't those ideals crumble when faced with territorial instincts?"
The challenge in his tone stirs something in me, snapping me fully back to the moment. My spine straightens, and my words sharpen to match his. "They'll face challenges," I reply firmly, holding his gaze. "No question. But trust starts with opportunity. The hub creates a system where collaboration isn't just encouraged—it's essential for mutual success. Isn't that worth the effort?"
He tilts his head, the faintest movement, his dark eyes narrowing before a slow nod follows, deliberate and firm, as if granting permission without a single word.
I press through the rest of the presentation, the weight of his gaze lingering even when I address others in the room. The questions come fast, and I answer them with the practiced rhythm of someone who's done this a hundred times.
By the time the crowd begins to thin, the strain in my voice is undeniable. My throat feels raw, and my energy ebbs as I pass the reins to one of the students assisting me—a bright-eyed young woman whose enthusiasm practically radiates. She dives into the next wave of questions with the zeal of someone who still believes they can change the world in a single evening.
I step back, easing toward the quieter edges of the venue with a glass of wine in hand. The faint ache in my heels is a reminder of how long I've been standing. For a moment, I let myself exhale, savoring the relative stillness.
The alcove I find offers a momentary reprieve. The wine is cool against my palm, a small comfort as I let the evening's events replay in my mind. A low hum of voices drifts from the main hall, mingling with the distant strains of music. I close my eyes, exhaling the tension I didn't realize I was holding.
"Careful," a smooth voice warns, just as I collide with a wall of warm fabric. The contents of my wine glass arc in a crimson stream, splashing across my dress.
"Oh, shit!" I stammer, glancing around, desperately searching for something to clean up the mess. "I'm so sorry."
The man before me steps back, brushing at the droplets that have dotted his tailored suit. It was the handsome man from before.
Damn! Up close, his features are even more striking with that jawline that could cut glass and dark eyes framed by impossibly thick lashes, and a mouth that holds just enough curve to hint at disdain. Everything about him exudes power and control, from the crisp lines of his suit to the slight arch of his brow. Irritation? Amusement? It's hard to tell, but both seem to lurk beneath the surface.
"Let me." His voice cuts through the moment, low and firm, as he pulls a blue, satin handkerchief from his breast pocket. His fingers graze mine as he takes over, the contact a fleeting warmth that sends a shiver skimming up my arm. He leans in, the faint scent of cedar and something crisp filling the small space between us, his movements deliberate and unhurried as the soft fabric brushes against my dress.
"Really, it's fine," I protest, heat crawling up my neck while my hands flounder in the air. "It's ruined," he replies matter-of-factly, straightening to meet my gaze.
I catch myself holding my breath. His eyes scan me, lingering just long enough to make my skin feel too tight. I'm uncomfortably aware of the way his mouth quirks ever so slightly—a look that says he's already mapped out my weaknesses. It's not just unsettling; it's infuriating. And yet, I can't stop the thought that slides, unwelcome, through my mind: What would it feel like to have all that intensity directed somewhere else?
"Adrian Kane," he says, extending a hand. His lips lift into a slow smile, one corner higher than the other, as though he's in on a secret I don't know. The faint crease at the edges of his mouth deepens, drawing my focus. His gaze holds steady, dark and unreadable, but something flickers there—calculated yet inviting. My fingers twitch at my side, heat prickling my skin as I slip my hand into his, the firm warmth of his grip pulling me closer than the distance between us should allow.
The name clicks before I can stop myself from reacting.
Adrian Kane. The Council's political strategist. Adrian is the council's enforcer in strategy, the man who translates their orders into actions that keep the werewolf population in line. And now, he's standing here, dissecting me with those sharp eyes.
"Elara Thorne," I reply, clasping his hand briefly. His grip is warm, firm, and lingers just a beat longer than expected.
His head tilts slightly, dark eyes holding mine with a focus that feels uncomfortably sharp yet strangely grounding. "I trust my earlier questioning didn't unsettle you too much?" His voice is smooth, carrying a note of something that might almost be regret—if it weren't softened by the faint curve of his lips.
I pause, catching the flicker of warmth beneath his words. "Not at all," I say, the steadiness of my voice belying the subtle tension curling low in my chest. "I hope I answered your questions to your satisfaction."
His lips tug higher, the faint smile deepening as he nods once. "You did." There's something in the way his gaze lingers—a weight to it, as though he's sizing me up again, not with skepticism this time but curiosity. "It's no small thing to handle scrutiny like that with composure. Few manage it."
The warmth in his voice pulls me in, unraveling the edge he'd carried before. My pulse steadies, my shoulders easing just slightly. "I believe in what I'm doing," I reply, almost quieter than intended. "That makes it easier to stand by it."
For a moment, his expression softens further, his features lightened by something almost—almost—like approval. But then the moment shifts, his brow lowering just slightly, the smile fading into something more reserved. "Belief is powerful," he says, his tone carrying a weight that wasn't there before. "But belief isn't always enough to sway the Council. Feasibility tends to win out over vision."
The shift in his tone, the careful edge of his words, is like a bucket of cold water over the warmth he'd just built. He straightens slightly, the faint crease at his brow smoothing as he regards me for a moment longer.
But instead of turning away, he dips his head again—just slightly—a gesture that feels oddly... thoughtful. "Good luck, Ms. Thorne," he says, his voice softer now, his eyes holding mine for a beat longer than necessary. Then, with a measured step back, he blends into the crowd, leaving behind the faint trace of his presence, like a thread pulled taut but not yet severed.
Moments later, I find myself back at my display, surrounded by a smattering of attendees who have lingered to ask questions. Marissa hovers nearby, smiling nervously as she handles the overflow of inquiries.
I catch snippets of similar questions, voices blending into a dull hum. My replies feel practiced but distant as my thoughts drift to Adrian Kane—his words, his presence. Damn him.
Why do I care? He's with the Council, the very entity that looks at people like me and my university as threats to their order. Even if they haven't said it outright, the pretense of polite engagement is paper-thin. His criticisms should roll off me, but they stick, sharp and irritating.
Stay away, I tell myself, though the words lack conviction.
And then, I hear his voice.
I spot him moments later, surrounded by a group of well-dressed attendees. His voice carries, smooth and authoritative, as he picks apart my project with clinical precision. Words like "potentially destabilizing" and "unrealistic" hit my ears, each one igniting a spark of indignation.
Before I fully register my movement, I'm stepping into the circle. "It's easy to criticize from a distance," I say, my voice sharper than I intend, cutting through their chuckles. Heads turn, but my gaze locks onto his. "Have you considered the potential benefits, or are you only focused on the risks?"
Adrian's expression doesn't shift, but there's something in his eyes—a flicker of intrigue or amusement, perhaps. "Risks and benefits are two sides of the same coin," he replies evenly. "My job is to ensure one doesn't outweigh the other."
"And mine is to build bridges, not walls," I counter, my tone steady but laced with defiance.
His lips curve into something resembling a smile, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "An admirable sentiment. Let's hope it's enough."
"Your idea of progress," Adrian says, his voice slicing cleanly through the murmurs, "is an idealistic fantasy. A sustainable city hub for humans and werewolves? Last month alone, twenty hate crimes against werewolves were reported in human-majority areas. And that's just the official count. Do you really think a few buildings will erase that?"
I step forward, my nails biting into my palms as I hold his gaze. "Naive?" The word tumbles out like a challenge. "This project isn't some pipe dream. It's about undoing decades of segregation and hostility. It's about proving we can do more than just coexist—we can thrive."
His brow lifts slightly, his expression cutting and calm as he steps closer. "And when history repeats itself? When human parents pull their kids from shared schools because they don't 'feel safe' around werewolves? When the first clash in one of your shared spaces reignites old tensions? Tell me, what then?"
I don't flinch, meeting the heat of his challenge head-on. "The hub is built for exactly those challenges. Shared schools with mediation programs. Housing designed to respect privacy without fostering division. Public spaces that encourage interaction, not isolation. I've planned for the cracks—you just refuse to see what could be built around them."
His eyes narrow slightly, the sharp angles of his face softening for the briefest moment as though he's considering my words. "You think your plans are enough to shift centuries of distrust?" His voice drops, quieter now but no less intense. "Last year, an entire werewolf community was forced to flee a border town after a riot sparked over a human's false accusation. That's the reality you're trying to build over."
"You think I don't know the risks?" My voice rises, not in volume but in weight, pressing against the air between us. "You're right—centuries of damage won't disappear overnight. But I won't let fear stop us from trying. Someone has to take the first step."
The corner of his mouth lifts slightly, though the movement doesn't reach his eyes. "You're bold," he says, almost under his breath. "I'll give you that. But boldness doesn't stop things from falling apart when pressure mounts."
He steps closer, his voice dropping lower as if to ensure no one but me hears. "And when it does, will you still stand here? Or will you let the people you claim to protect bear the fallout alone?"
The proximity unsettles me, his gaze heavy and unwavering, cutting through every defense I've built. My breath catches, my throat tight as the weight of his words presses against me.
"I will," I say, my voice barely above a whisper, but it holds steady. "Because I believe in this. And because people—werewolves and humans—deserve more than fear."
For a moment, his expression shifts. The sharp lines soften, and his lips part as though to respond. But then the flicker is gone, replaced by the carefully composed mask he wore before. "Belief," he murmurs, tilting his head slightly. "Let's hope it's enough."
The air between us hums, heavy and charged, as his gaze lingers. Around us, the crowd moves, their voices rising again, but none of it reaches me. I can't move, can't break the pull of his presence until he finally steps back, his eyes never leaving mine.
My heels click against the polished floor as I turn toward the exit, each step firm, measured. The cool air bites at my skin as I push through the doors, but the tension he left behind clings stubbornly to me. I pause, my breath uneven, and glance back.
Through the glass, Adrian stands apart from the crowd, the light casting a soft glow across his face. His gaze is still fixed on me, unblinking and piercing, as though tethering me to this moment. Heat blooms at the back of my neck, and I turn quickly, the pull of him stubbornly refusing to fade even as I disappear into the night.