Page 13 of Heart of the Rebel Mate (Wolf Billionaire #5)

CHAPTER 13

ELARA

T he underground hideout smells of damp stone and old parchment, a strange mix of age and rebellion. The atmosphere carries the sound of whispered conversations and the metallic scent of weapons being cleaned in unseen corners. The dim lighting casts jagged shadows across the exposed brick walls, making the space feel more claustrophobic than it is.

I can hear the slow drip of water leaking from the ceiling somewhere deeper in the tunnels– it punctuates the murmurs of the rebels scattered throughout the chamber. The walls are lined with old bookshelves, their spines coated in dust, remnants of whatever purpose this place once served before it became a war room. A lantern flickers beside me, the flame barely holding on against the damp chill of the underground air.

Cassian stands at the center of it all.

He leans against a rusted metal desk, arms crossed over his broad chest, his dark eyes never leaving mine. The low light catches the edges of his face, sharpening the angles of his jaw, the lines of his brow. He's always been like this—watchful and unreadable, yet keeping his every movement deliberate. Once, I thought it was confidence. Now, I recognize it for what it is: control.

His presence is an unspoken command, and the rebels who surround us obey without question. Even now, as we stand locked in this silent battle of wills, I can feel their attention hovering on the edges of the room. They are waiting. Watching. Judging.

"Elara," he says, voice smooth but weighted. "You can't keep running from this."

I don't move.

I'm exhausted, my body aching from too many close calls, my mind still reeling from what Adrian and I have done. The Council will be hunting us. There is no going back. And yet, standing here, faced with Cassian and the sheer force of his conviction, I feel an entirely different kind of pressure closing in.

His voice is calm and measured– presumably from a lot of practice– but there's an urgency in it that wasn't there before. It makes my pulse quicken. My stomach twists at the thought of what is to come.

"I'm not running," I say evenly. "I just refuse to trade one master for another."

His jaw tightens, but he doesn't let the irritation show. Instead, he gestures toward the room around us.

Maps of the city are scattered across the walls, marked with red ink where the rebellion has made its presence known. Strategic points of attack. Safe houses. Supply routes. Symbols I don't recognize, etched in the margins—codes, maybe, or messages meant only for those who already belong to this cause. For the initiated.

This isn't just a resistance.

It's a war being planned in the shadows.

"You still think this is about control?" he asks. "This is about survival."

I shake my head. "No. My project was about survival. About giving people like us a place in this world. You? You're tearing it apart!"

His gaze darkens. "And what would you have me do? Sit back while they slaughter us? While they rip apart our lives one by one?"

I don't answer.

Because part of me understands.

Part of me wants to be angry, to fight, to make the Council pay for what they've done. But I've seen what blind hatred does to people. I've seen what it does to him.

Cassian exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. His fingers thread through the dark strands like he's trying to pull himself together. His movements are tense and controlled, but I can see the crack in his armor. The exhaustion behind his eyes is unmistakable. One cannot simply run an operation like this and not expect to pay the price mentally and physically, werewolf or not.

He steps closer, lowering his voice. "Listen to me," he says. "You haven't seen the full picture yet. Your influence—your name—carries more weight than you realize. You could be the face of this movement."

The words hit like a blow to the chest.

I stiffen. "And you think that's a good thing?"

His expression flickers, and I notice his hesitation. His conviction might be strong, but so is his doubt. He's just very good at keeping it at bay.

Cassian has always played the part of the fearless leader, the one who never wavers. But I know him. And beneath all of that righteous fury is something else entirely. Guilt, perhaps.

I press forward.

"You don't just want me because of my influence. You want me because it makes it easier for you to sleep at night."

He flinches, but just barely.

The room is too quiet now. The murmurs of the rebels have faded, and I know they're listening. Waiting for his response.

"You think if I stand next to you, if I validate what you're doing, it'll make it all worth it. That it'll erase the things you've done." My voice drops, steady but sharp. "But it won't."

His mouth tightens.

For a long moment, neither of us speaks.

Then he exhales, rubbing his jaw. "Maybe you're right," he admits. "Maybe none of it will ever be enough. But it doesn't change the fact that we need you."

I let the silence stretch before answering.

"I won't be your pawn, Cassian."

His face is unreadable, but something shifts in his stance. A quiet understanding. A reluctant acceptance.

I see the disappointment flicker across his face, but he nods once, conceding—for now.

But we both know this isn't the last time we'll have this conversation.

News travels fast. Faster than I ever thought possible.

By the time I step back into the safe house, the air is thick with the scent of damp wood and the faint traces of burnt-out candles. A storm passed earlier, and the moisture clings to everything—the cracked floorboards, the tattered curtains swaying near the drafty window, the old leather armchair where Adrian now sits, his fingers drumming softly against the armrest.

He doesn't look up right away.

The dim glow of the streetlights outside spills through the grime-coated glass. His sharp features are half-obscured by the flickering candle on the table beside him, but I don't need to see his expression to know what's coming. The tension rolls off him in waves, and it is thick enough to drown in.

I take a deep breath, shaking the rain from my sleeves as I shut the door behind me.

"I know what you're about to say."

Adrian finally turns, his eyes dark and unreadable. "They're talking about you."

I set my coat down, crossing the creaky wooden floor. The boards groan beneath my weight, a reminder that this place—our so-called safe house—is barely standing. It used to be an old tailor's shop, abandoned before the rebellion took it over. The walls are still lined with dusty shelves, scraps of fabric forgotten in the corners.

I stop a few feet from him. "Who?"

"Everyone." He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, studying me like he's waiting for a reaction, some sign that I understand just how deep we're in now. "Your arrest—it wasn't just another political move. It was a message."

I swallow hard.

The Council tried to make an example of me. Tried to crush the rebellion by dragging me into the spotlight and branding me a traitor. But instead, they've done the opposite. The Council is likely livid at my escape, but they cannot put out an APB on me just yet, because that would mean informing the public of the situation. If that happens, they lose even more credibility and risk turning me into some sort of heroic figure.

People are paying attention now.

The movement, once whispered in darkened alleys and secret meetings, is now being spoken about openly. Prominent figures—celebrities, activists, academics—are condemning my arrest, demanding change. My name is on their lips, my face on their screens.

And I don't know if that terrifies me or thrills me.

Adrian stands. His gaze is sharp, and he assesses me carefully. "Elara Voss ," he says quietly. "Your family name is surfacing in places it shouldn't."

A chill runs down my spine.

"What do you mean?"

He hesitates. Just for a second. But I catch it.

"Your name has been in opposition circles before," he admits. "And not just because of you."

I blink. "You're saying my family?—"

"I don't know," he says. "But people are asking questions."

The candle on the table flickers, the wax pooling at its base. A drop slides down, slow and deliberate, as if mirroring the sinking stone in my chest.

My mother is dead.

My father... I don't know who he was. Not really. He was a ghost, a shadow that never quite solidified into something real. I've spent my life trying to carve my own place in this world, separate from whatever legacy came before me.

But now, that legacy is catching up.

I glance at the window, watching the city beyond. The streets are quiet at this hour, but I can feel the gaze of unseen eyes, the whispers of the public curling through the dark like smoke, finding me even in my obscurity.

I shudder and rub my palms together.

The couch beneath me sags under my weight, the fabric rough against my fingertips as I trace an absent pattern along the frayed edges. It smells like old dust and damp wood, a scent that has become all too familiar. Somewhere in the safe house, water drips from a leaky pipe, the rhythmic plink-plink filling the silence between us. A candle flickers on the rickety table beside me. I am grateful for the warmth.

I stare at my hands. They're steady. Too steady. But inside, I feel anything but.

"I didn't ask for this," I murmur, the words barely loud enough to break the quiet.

Across from me, Adrian sits in a battered chair, elbows braced against his knees. The dim light catches in his eyes, making them inscrutable. He watches me carefully, the way someone might observe a glass on the edge of a table, waiting to see if it will fall.

"I know," he says.

I drag in a slow breath, feeling the weight of everything pressing against my ribs. "I just wanted to build something real. Something that mattered. I never wanted to be..." I trail off, staring at the candle's flame.

A symbol. A leader. A name that carries more meaning than I ever intended.

Adrian leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "You don't have to be what they expect you to be."

A bitter laugh slips from my lips before I can stop it. It sounds hollow in the small space. "Don't I?"

Everywhere I turn, people are looking to me for answers. For leadership. For hope.

I can feel it in the way they watch me when I walk into a room, the way conversations hush just long enough for them to take in my presence before continuing. I see it in the quiet nods, the whispered prayers, the expectant eyes of those who believe I am something more than just a girl who survived.

I am not built for this.

Adrian doesn't speak for a long moment. The candle flickers, sending a ripple of light across his face. Then, quietly, he says, "You're stronger than you think."

I shake my head, pressing my fingers against my temples. "No. I'm just good at pretending."

His hand brushes mine, and I jolt.

The contact is fleeting, accidental. But the effect is immediate. My breath catches, a sharp inhale I can't suppress. Heat pools under my skin, an unwelcome flush creeping up my neck.

Adrian doesn't react at first. He keeps speaking, his voice steady, discussing plans, tactics, the rebellion—things that should matter more than the way my body is suddenly at war with itself.

But I feel him watching. Assessing.

The next time his fingers touch mine, it's deliberate. A slow drag. Barely there.

I clench my thighs, a pulse of warmth sparking deep. I hate that he does this to me, that a simple touch can unravel something tight in my chest and send it tumbling lower, twisting into need.

"Elara." His voice is a weapon, all smooth command and quiet force.

I don't look at him. If I do, I'll be lost.

Instead, I swallow hard and force my hands into fists.

"You're doing that on purpose," I mutter.

A ghost of a smile tugs at his lips. "Am I?"

Damn him.

The silence stretches between us, heavy and full of things neither of us can say out loud. The rebellion. The weight of my past. The uncertainty of the future. It all presses in on me, thick as smoke, curling around my thoughts until I feel like I might choke on it.

I don't know how long I sit there, lost in the labyrinth of my own mind. The candle's wax drips in slow intervals, a small, steady reminder that time hasn't stopped even if it feels like it has. The world is still turning. The fight is still waiting.

Eventually, I look up.

And I make a decision.

I can't control how the world sees me.

But I can control what I do next.

I straighten my shoulders, lifting my chin just enough to feel the shift inside me. "If they want me to be a symbol, fine. But I'll do it my way."

Adrian's lips twitch in something that isn't quite a smile but isn't far from it either. There's something almost like pride in his expression, something quiet and knowing.

"That's more like it," he says.

I exhale slowly, letting the moment settle into my bones. The candle continues its slow burn. The storm outside has passed, leaving only the occasional gust of wind against the window, rattling the glass like a whisper of things yet to come.

This is only the beginning.

And I am not afraid.