Page 11 of Heart of the Rebel Mate (Wolf Billionaire #5)

CHAPTER 11

ELARA

B etrayal is never immediate. It builds in whispers, in stolen glances, in the growing feeling that something isn't right—until the truth crashes down, leaving devastation in its wake.

I sit in my office, staring at the documents spread before me. The words are clear, and even though I do not want to believe it, the implications are undeniable. Someone leaked information about my project to the Council. Not just technical details, but everything: my communications with university leadership, internal funding strategies, even transcripts from planning meetings I didn't realize were being monitored.

My hands tremble as I turn the pages. Each one is another knife in my back.

The betrayal is absolute.

For weeks, I had known my project had drawn attention, but I believed it was within a safe boundary. It was academic—an architectural initiative meant to foster understanding, a symbol of what the university stood for. But this? This turns it into something else.

The Werewolf Council isn't interested in my designs. They see a threat, a movement against them. And worst of all, someone close to me—someone in my team—handed them the ammunition to justify my downfall.

I exhale sharply, pressing my fingertips to my temples; I try in vain to will away the pounding in my skull. The air in the office becomes stale and suffocating. I begin to feel lightheaded.

The overhead light flickers, buzzing faintly. I probably wouldn't have noticed that sound before, but now, every detail feels intrusive, like my space is no longer my own.

A knock at the door snaps me out of my thoughts. I lift my head with a start as my pulse races with blind speed.

Professor Alden stands there, and his face is drawn. The usual warmth in his eyes is gone, replaced by a cold, heavy countenance.

"They've arrested Dean Calloway," he says.

The words don't register at first.

"What?" My voice is hoarse. I hadn't noticed how quickly my throat had gotten dry.

"Early this morning. The Council's enforcers took him from his home. They're charging him with stirring up opposition or something. To be honest, I don't think the details matter that much."

An icy weight settles in my stomach, like a steel anchor hitting the ocean floor with a thunk !

Calloway had been my biggest advocate. He believed in my project when others hesitated. His support had given me the confidence to push forward. And now...

"They're making an example of him," I whisper.

Alden nods, his expression growing even darker. "And they're not stopping there. Elara, they're looking at you next."

The world tilts.

My office, the place that had always felt safe, now seems foreign. The walls feel too close, the air might as well be made of cotton balls. The bookshelves lining the far wall—filled with architectural theories, cultural histories of werewolves and humans, and annotated research papers—already look like relics of a past life. A life I might not have tomorrow. Dissent against the Council could be used to justify any type of "justice" on their part. What if all my possessions were seized as evidence or some other flimsy reason?

"I didn't do anything wrong." The words feel hollow even as I say them.

Alden exhales through his nose sharply. "Neither did Calloway," he says. "That doesn't matter to them."

I push to my feet, but my legs feel unsteady beneath me. "Who did this?"

Alden hesitates.

The pause is long enough to confirm what I already know.

"The leak came from inside," he finally says. "Someone on your team."

My stomach clenches. The room suddenly feels smaller, the walls pressing in, the flickering light overhead casting long, fractured shadows.

Someone I worked with. Someone I trusted.

I sink back into my chair, gripping the edge of my desk to ground myself.

The knowledge burns.

I force myself to think logically and push back against wave after wave of anger and disbelief that washes over me. Who had access to these documents? Who stood to gain by selling me out? My mind runs through names, faces, conversations replaying with new meaning. Was it the hesitant pauses in meetings? The vague excuses for missed deadlines? The carefully neutral expressions when I spoke of progress?

"They'll come for you next, Elara. Be careful."

Alden's voice is quiet, but the warning rings loud in my ears.

Be careful.

As if caution will stop them.

We both know that once the Council sets its sights on someone, there's no amount of careful maneuvering that can undo it. The decision has already been made.

I swallow hard. "How much time do I have?"

Alden shifts his stance. "Hours. Maybe a day. They'll move fast."

I grip the desk harder and my nails pressing into the polished wood hurt like hell, but I don't even mind. It's a welcome distraction. Every second wasted is another moment closer to the inevitable.

I need to act.

The urge to run flares in my chest, but I tamp it down. Running would only confirm their suspicions. And worse, it would mean leaving behind everything I've worked for.

I can't leave.

Not yet.

I glance at the documents on my desk again. Evidence of betrayal, of someone working against me.

If I go down, I won't go down blind.

My voice steadies as I meet Alden's gaze. "I need access to the security records. If someone leaked this, there's a trail."

Alden hesitates. "Elara?—"

"I can't just sit here and wait to be arrested," I snap. "If I know who did this, maybe I can?—"

"Can what?" Alden's voice is sharp now, edged with something I can't place. "Expose them? Appeal to the Council for fairness?" He shakes his head, his gaze dark. "They don't care about fairness. They care about control."

The words sting because I know they're true.

Even so, I can't stand by and do nothing . I push away from my desk and get to my feet. The weight in my chest is still there, pressing down like an anvil dropped from a height. But beneath it is something steadier. A flicker of defiance.

"If they're going to take me," I say, my voice working its way from trembling to firm, "they'll have to work for it."

Alden studies me for a long moment, then nods. "Then we move fast."

I inhale deeply, steadying myself.

The betrayal still lingers, coiling like a vice around my ribs. But if they think I'm just going to sit here and accept my fate, they don't know me at all. I am my father's daughter, and we do not usually go out without a fight.

I may be cornered.

But I'm not done yet.

The air is burdened with silence, yet every footstep, every shift in the crowd, rings out like a bell. The enforcers are a wall of black uniforms and as if that wasn't scary enough, their faces are blank and their expressions are unreadable. The mere sound of their boots on the ground is enough to strike fear into the hearts of the most defiant and courageous citizen.

The campus courtyard, which is usually a place of chatter and activity, has become a stage. I feel every gaze burning into me. They're all asking different questions, or passing varying degrees of judgment. I'm usually ignored whenever I move around on campus. I'd have done anything to invite the indifference of the public at that moment.

I clench my fists and my nails bite into my palms. I'd been meaning to trim them, but with the full moon coming up, they're stronger and tougher than ever.

"Elara Voss," the lead enforcer repeats. His voice is flat and devoid of emotion. I am having the absolute worst time and he's calling my name like it's just another Tuesday for him. "You are under investigation for ideological subversion. Come with us."

It isn't a request.

A laugh almost escapes me, one that is sharp, bitter, and uncontrolled.

Subversion .

That word.

So neatly designed to strip away any defense or nuance. It didn't matter that my work was meant to bridge divides between communities and build something meaningful. It didn't matter that my intentions were clear, or that my hands were clean.

Noble intentions don't matter when the Council decides you are a threat. Nothing does, apparently.

I should argue. Demand an explanation. But I know better. The moment I open my mouth, my words will be twisted into confessions and my demand for any due process will be seen as defiance. I do not want to give them the opportunity to use force. Not yet anyway. I know some of them are just itching to use it though. The bastards.

I force myself to breathe evenly. To stand straight.

And then I see him.

Adrian.

He stands by the library steps. The columns hide most of his frame but I can tell it's him. His sharp features are unreadable and he isn't moving. From what I can tell, he's damn near holding his breath.

He merely observes the whole thing.

There is something in his expression—something that flickers too fast for me to name. Whether it is hesitation or guilt, I do not have the luxury of figuring out.

He should step forward. Say something. Anything.

But he doesn't.

A cold certainty settles in my bones.

He isn't going to stop this.

The realization carves through me like a blade, deep and clean. Of all the betrayals—whoever sold me out, the Council's ruthless response—I hadn't been prepared for this.

The enforcers tighten their formation, shifting just slightly, and the moment between Adrian and me is severed.

I turn my chin up, forcing steel into my spine.

If he won't fight for me, I will face this alone.

One of the enforcers grips my arm. Surprisingly, it isn't harsh but firm. It's a warning.

The crowd does nothing except continue to judge and speculate.

I let them take me.

The walk through the courtyard is excruciating. Not because of the enforcers' grip, not because of fear—though it claws at the edges of my mind—but because of the silence.

The crowd parts for us, the students, the professors, all the people who were once my colleagues, my peers. Some cast furtive glances my way, their eyes filled with something resembling pity. I throw it back at them. I don't need it. Others keep their heads down, unwilling to look at me at all.

I recognize faces. People I've worked and laughed with. People who had, just days ago, praised my work.

Not one of them speaks.

I should have known better.

The Council's shadow stretches long, and fear is the leash that keeps people in line.

A few steps ahead, the lead enforcer speaks into his comm. "Target secured. Escorting now."

Target .

Not a person. Not a scholar. Just a nuisance to be contained.

The administration building looms ahead, a monolith of cold stone and glass. The doors open without a sound, and the moment I cross the threshold, I realize what's really going on. They aren't just going to run an interrogation, they're looking to make an example of me.

Inside, the air is sterile, humming with bureaucracy. Some say bureaucracy is our most efficient way of getting things done, but I've always seen it as an unfortunate custom of both human as well as werewolf culture.

The receptionist doesn't even blink as we pass. She merely presses a button, and a set of reinforced doors unlock with a mechanical hiss.

I am led down a narrow hallway with bare walls and lights so bright they hurt my retinas. The enforcers say nothing. There is no need.

They take me to a small room without windows or any distinctive features. All I see is a metal table and two chairs.

The cuffs come next. Cold steel snaps around my wrists, securing them to the table. It is unnecessary and insulting, but I don't protest. I notice that they are made out of silver. They will burn my skin if I struggle to get out of them. I am being treated like a mass murderer for some reason and although this makes my heart pound in my chest, I suddenly begin to find the whole thing vaguely amusing. It feels like a performance. Silver handcuffs, really? Why didn't they go ahead and lace them with wolfsbane so I'll understand we're deep in torture territory?

This is a game, and I have just become their newest piece.

The door clicks shut.

And I am alone.

For the first time since this began, I allow myself a single, shaky breath.

Then I steel myself for what comes next.

They leave me there for hours and I regret skipping lunch because my stomach growls and my vision swirls. By the time the door opens, my body is stiff and my mind is now a tangled mess of exhaustion and adrenaline.

A man steps inside. He wears a high-collared Council uniform. His posture is precise, and his gaze is made of steel. He places a thin folder on the table and sits across from me.

"Elara Voss." He says my name like a verdict. "You understand why you're here?"

I don't flinch. "Because someone wants me to be."

He doesn't appear amused. "Your project, your discussions with university leadership—they suggest alignment with dissenting ideologies." He opens the folder, flipping through pages of evidence. "Financial backing from questionable sources. Meetings that framed your designs as 'revolutionary.'" He looks at me. "What revolution were you planning?"

I grit my teeth. "My work is about architecture. Not politics."

The interrogator leans back. "You sound like Dean Calloway."

My pulse spikes. "Where is he?"

The man ignores my question. "We're more interested in your connections. Who encouraged you? Who funded you? Who else was involved?"

I glare at him. "You already have the answers you want. Why not get your mole to feed you all this information? And if they have, why are you wasting my time?" I was getting a bit angry.

He watches me. "Cooperation makes this easier."

For who?

I don't answer.

He sighs, closing the folder. "Right, then. A few more hours or days should shake all of this out of you. We'll continue this later."

Hours pass. To say I am exhausted would be an understatement the size of Chicago. I press my palms flat against the cold metal of the table. My wrists are still sore from the cuffs, creating a dull ache beneath my skin, but I barely register the pain. My mind is elsewhere, replaying the last few minutes, the last few days—turning them over like broken glass, sharp and jagged in my thoughts. My thoughts go to Zara. I wonder if she's safe.

I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. The light overhead flickers slightly. It smells of stale air and antiseptic, a manufactured sterility that does nothing to mask the reality of this place.

A holding cell. A waiting room for something worse.

They haven't charged me yet. Haven't laid out the full weight of their accusations. But I know how this works. They don't need evidence—only suspicion. A single whisper in the right ear, a name written in the wrong report, and suddenly, you are a danger. An enemy. A problem to be erased.

I close my eyes.

I think of Calloway. Is he still alive?

Will I be, when this is over?

A soft knock startles me.

The door opens, and a guard steps in. Not the one from before. This one is taller, with sharp eyes that miss nothing. He gestures for me to stand.

"Come with me."

I hesitate for half a second, then push myself up. My legs are stiff, my body protesting after hours of sitting, but I move without complaint. The feeling of blood rushing down my legs is equal parts painful and soothing. I almost ask–no, beg– for a glass of water, but I know my pleas will fall on deaf ears. This guard doesn't have any authority.

I don't ask where we're going.

It won't change anything.

They lead me to another room. Larger. Still empty, except for a single chair positioned in the center.

The guard gestures toward it. "Sit."

I do.

A moment later, the door opens again, and someone new enters.

Not an enforcer. Not a guard.

A sharply dressed woman, with calculating eyes that are dark as ink, carries herself with the quiet authority of someone who does not need to raise her voice to command attention.

She sets a folder on the table and opens it with deliberate precision.

"Elara Voss," she says, as if testing how my name tastes on her tongue. "You've caused quite a stir."

I meet her gaze, saying nothing.

She waits, as if expecting a reaction. When I give her none, she smiles—just slightly, just enough to make my stomach tighten with unease.

"I'm here to offer you an opportunity," she continues, flipping through the file. "You see, the Council doesn't need you to be guilty. They only need you to be useful."

I keep my expression carefully blank, but inside, something shifts.

An offer.

Not freedom. Not absolution.

A deal.

She looks up, studying me. "You're an intelligent woman, Ms. Voss. You must know how this ends if you refuse."

A threat, veiled in civility.

I swallow, my pulse loud in my ears.

I know exactly what she's saying.

If I refuse, I disappear.

If I accept, I become something else entirely.

A pawn. A mouthpiece. A weapon for their cause.

I straighten in my seat, meeting her gaze with quiet defiance.

"I don't make deals with people who put me in chains."

The woman exhales through her nose, not quite a sigh, not quite amusement.

"Think it over," she says, closing the file with a soft snap .

She stands, smoothing out an invisible crease in her sleeve.

"You have until tomorrow."

Then she leaves.

The door clicks shut.

And I am alone once more.

I release a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

Tomorrow.

It isn't much time.

But it's still time.

And as long as I have that—no matter how little, no matter how fragile—I am not done fighting yet.