Page 18 of Heart of the Rebel Mate (Wolf Billionaire #5)

CHAPTER 18

ADRIAN

T he mountain air is crisp, sharp in my lungs as I push forward. My boots barely make a sound against the dirt trail, my body moving with a rhythm that feels almost instinctual. The world up here is quiet. There are no voices, no city noise, just the wind through the trees and the distant rush of water somewhere below.

I don't shift, but I don't need to. Even in this form, my senses stretch beyond human limits. The scent of damp earth, pine, and the faint musk of animals fill the air. A deer moved through here not long ago. Something smaller—maybe a fox—lingered by the rocks. I catch the acrid tang of distant smoke, maybe from a campsite miles away.

Up here, I can almost forget.

Almost.

But then I hear her voice in my head.

Not real. Just memory.

A sharp remark. A tired sigh. The way she says my name when she's frustrated, when she doesn't trust me but still needs me.

And then I see him .

Not here, not in the mountains. But in my mind.

Cassian, standing too close to her. Speaking in low tones. Watching her like he knows something I don't.

I push harder, picking up speed. The incline burns in my legs, but I welcome it. Anything to keep my mind from circling back to the same damn thing.

It's not just that Cassian is around. It's how he's around. Lingering. Pressing in. I saw them the other night, on the balcony outside the safe house. Their voices were low, heated. I wasn't close enough to hear what was said—wolfsbane in the walls scrambled my abilities—but I didn't need to hear the words. I saw the way she held her ground, the way he leaned in.

He wants something from her.

Maybe the summit. Maybe more.

And she hasn't told him to leave.

I reach a break in the trees, a ledge overlooking the valley below. The sky is turning gold, the sun sinking behind the distant peaks. I slow, catching my breath, my pulse steadying.

The smart thing would be to ignore it. To stay out of it.

But I've never been smart when it comes to her. What is this passion I feel? Why does it burn so deeply within me, threatening to consume my body and soul?

Before I can get an answer to that, my senses pick up something and I become alert. The air has changed.

It's subtle at first, just a shift in the wind, but I feel it in my bones. The forest is too still. No rustling leaves, no scurrying undergrowth, no distant chirps or animal calls. Just silence.

My body tenses.

Then, a sharp cry cuts through the quiet.

I snap my head up just in time to see a hawk dive from the sky. It's fast—just a streak of shadow against the blinding-white clouds. My eyes track it instinctively as it zeroes in on a small nest perched in the crook of a tree, high above the forest floor.

The mother bird isn't there. She must have left to find food.

A heartbeat later, the hawk strikes.

A flurry of motion. Twigs snapping. A tiny, helpless thing yanked into the sky, its fragile body dangling from the predator's talons.

I move before I think.

Muscle, instinct, reaction—I launch myself up, pushing off a rock to gain height, fingers grasping at air. The hawk is already rising, its wings beating hard, carrying its stolen prize farther and farther away.

Not fast enough.

I land, crouched, breath sharp. My mind whirs, my pulse hammering. My body wants to shift, to hunt, but it wouldn't do any good. The hawk isn't prey I can chase down on foot.

I need a different tactic.

My hand finds a smooth stone near my boot. I weigh it for a second before whipping my arm back and hurling it at the bird. It misses, sailing uselessly into the trees.

I grit my teeth, already reaching for another.

Again.

Again.

The stones fly, some grazing the hawk's feathers, some falling wide, but none doing real damage.

Too fast.

The hawk climbs higher.

I exhale hard, frustration spiking. My feet dig into the earth as I crouch lower, searching for something smaller, heavier. A perfect projectile.

A memory flashes—some old human story about David and Goliath. A boy with a stone, facing a giant.

Except my giant isn't some warrior. It's a damn bird.

And I'm losing.

Maybe I should let it go.

Maybe this is how things are meant to be. The strong take from the weak. Nature plays out its brutal cycle, indifferent to who suffers.

Isn't this what I keep telling myself about Elara? About the Council? About Cassian?

That it's not my fight?

That I should just let things happen?

I close my fingers around a final stone. Small. Smooth. Heavy.

One last try.

I twist my body, aiming higher, waiting until I know—this one will hit.

Then I throw.

The stone slices through the air. A second stretches into eternity.

And then—contact.

A sharp thunk as it strikes the hawk's wing. The bird jerks, its balance thrown, and suddenly the tiny bundle in its grip slips free.

It falls.

I move.

I don't think. My feet pound the forest floor, dodging rocks, leaping over roots. The baby bird plummets, its tiny wings flailing, its shrill cries barely audible over the wind.

I lunge.

Pain rips across my arm as I crash through a thorny bush, but I don't stop.

The world narrows.

Just the falling bird.

Just me.

And then—I catch it.

I hit the ground hard, rolling, shielding the fragile creature in my hands. My breath is ragged, my arms scraped raw, but I don't let go.

When I finally open my fingers, the baby bird is trembling but alive.

My breath escapes my lungs in shaky exhales.

I force myself to my feet, wincing as fresh cuts sting along my skin. Step by step, I make my way back to the tree, climbing carefully until I reach the nest. Gently, I set the bird down. It huddles in the twigs, dazed but safe.

The mother will come back soon.

I climb down and let my back hit the ground, sprawled in the shade of the trees.

For a while, I just lie there, listening. The wind moves again. The birds start singing. The forest breathes in and out.

Maybe I should let Elara fight her own battles.

Maybe I should stop throwing myself into danger for something I can't fix.

But I know myself. I mean, I had just done everything in my power to rid a hawk of its food and rescue a baby bird. So, what was I going to do? Stay here and keep rescuing prey animals from predators? Do I take on nature and try to stop its perpetual rhythm?

And I know this?—

I'll always go back for her.

I groan and sit up.

The meeting.

Ethan had already secured the location I suggested to Elara. It was time to get back and do something.

With a deep breath, I rise and start the long trek back.

Ethan's spot isn't exactly a grand hall. It's a repurposed building, one that might've once been a small warehouse or an old lodge. The walls are stained with age, the wooden beams showing the scars of time—splintered, weathered, but standing strong. The windows are intact but dusty, streaked with the grime of neglect. Someone—probably Ethan himself—has made an effort to freshen it up. The scent of fresh paint clings to the air, mingling with the earthy scent of damp wood and old stone. A few flickering lanterns cast long shadows across the space, illuminating the mismatched chairs and the large wooden table at the center, a relic from another era. It's sturdy, like everything else in the room—patched together but resilient, much like the people who've gathered here tonight.

The tension is tangible but not hostile. A charged anticipation hums through the space, everyone waiting for the meeting to begin. This isn't the summit yet. This is just the leaders of different factions showing up to plan how the meeting will go. It's a test run, if anything. Before we pack a lot of people in here, we want to make sure they want to be here in the first place.

I stand near the back, observing. My senses are heightened—not just because I'm naturally alert, but because this moment matters. Sweat, the shift in body temperature, the subtle changes in scent—I take it all in. What I find surprises me.

No fear.

No simmering hostility.

Not even among the humans.

It's rare to have both species in a room without some underlying aggression, but this is different. There's wariness, of course, but it's cautious hope rather than mistrust. It tells me that whatever grievances are about to be aired, people have come here with the intention of finding a way forward.

Elara stands near the head of the table, poised but watchful. Her gaze sweeps across the room, not missing a single detail. I don't know how she does it—balancing control with quiet grace, her presence commanding without needing to demand. My eyes linger a beat too long, and when she finally looks my way, I shift my focus, settling into my usual unreadable stance.

The meeting starts early.

A human man, middle-aged with a sharp face and wary eyes, steps forward. His clothes are plain, but there's something authoritative in the way he holds himself.

"My name is David Laurent," he begins, his voice steady but edged with years of caution. "I speak for a group of humans who believe the way our governments handle our... relationship with werewolves is fundamentally broken."

A murmur of agreement from the human side of the room.

David continues, choosing his words carefully. "There's a lot of fear surrounding your kind. That fear didn't come out of nowhere, and I'm sure you'd say the same about us. The government uses that fear to keep us apart. It keeps humans in the dark, makes us believe that werewolves are a threat unless they're controlled, registered, watched. And it keeps you under their boot, forcing you into obedience to the Council. Neither of us benefit from this."

A few humans nod. The werewolves remain still, listening.

A woman steps up next to David—tall, with streaks of gray in her auburn hair. "I was engaged to a werewolf once," she says, her voice clear, unashamed. "Years ago. He wasn't a danger to me, but the second people found out, my life became hell. I lost my job. My family cut me off. He—" she swallows, steeling herself. "He disappeared. The Council took him. Or maybe the government did. Either way, I never saw him again."

Silence stretches.

Then a werewolf, a broad-shouldered man with golden eyes, speaks. "That's what they do," he says. "They keep us in check by making us the villains in your stories. You think we haven't lost people, too? Your government calls us beasts, tells you we're dangerous. The Council calls us criminals when we don't obey them. They don't want us working together, because if we did, we wouldn't need them anymore."

The words hit hard.

Someone else from the werewolf side speaks, a younger woman with sharp features. "We know some of you have reasons not to trust us. But it's not us who made this war between our species. It's the people in power. We protect our own, just like you protect yours. But what if 'our own' could include both?"

The discussion builds from there. It's raw, filled with personal experiences, some spoken with anger, others with quiet exhaustion. The government and the Council are two sides of the same coin—both keeping their people under control through division and fear.

I listen closely.

They're not wrong.

For all the times I've questioned the way the world works, hearing it put so plainly makes the injustice clearer than ever. The governments keep humans in the dark, telling them werewolves are monsters. The Council keeps werewolves obedient, making sure they never think about breaking the system.

But that system is already breaking.

Then, Cassian speaks.

"This is all good talk," he says smoothly, leaning back in his chair like he's unimpressed. "But let's not pretend everyone in this room sees the world the same way. Some of us still believe in strength. That no matter what talks happen, the ones in power will always be the ones willing to take it."

The shift in the air is instant.

Cassian doesn't look at Elara. He looks at me.

His meaning is clear.

I don't react. I won't give him the satisfaction. But I see the flicker of amusement in his eyes, like he's testing me, waiting to see if I'll snap.

"I notice you're being real careful in this discussion, Adrian," he says, his voice light but edged. "Don't you have any opinions? Or do you just stand behind Elara and let her do all the work?"

My jaw tightens.

Elara shoots him a sharp look, but I don't need her to speak for me.

"I don't waste words," I say, keeping my voice even. "Unlike you."

Cassian smirks. "Is that it? Or are you afraid of making the wrong move?" He leans forward. "See, I think you hesitate too much. I think that's why you'll never really lead. You're too afraid of what might happen if you make the wrong choice."

The room is still.

I should let it go. But something in me refuses to back down.

"You mistake caution for weakness," I say. "That's your flaw. You think leading is about making the loudest threats. But real power isn't about being reckless." My voice lowers. "It's about knowing when to strike."

Cassian holds my gaze.

Then he laughs, leaning back like he's satisfied.

I don't know what game he's playing, but I know this much—he's pushing me, testing where I stand with Elara, with this movement, with her.

And I hate that it's working.

The meeting continues, shifting focus back to the alliance, the next steps, the risks. But the weight of that exchange lingers.

And so does something else.

The way I glance at Elara when I speak.

The way my voice changes when I address her.

It doesn't go unnoticed.

I see it in Cassian's smirk, in Ethan's quiet knowing glance.

The meeting adjourns as dusk settles in. Conversations linger in pockets, people discussing what comes next, but I step outside first, needing air.

Elara follows a moment later.

We don't speak.

But in the quiet of the cooling night, with the shadows stretching long and the stars just beginning to prick the sky, I know we both feel it.

Something is shifting.

But this was a good day, even with Cassian's stunt. This was progress. We might just win this war yet.

The night air is cool against my skin as I ride back home, the weight of the meeting still pressing against my thoughts. The tension with Cassian. The way the humans and werewolves spoke, the rawness of their words. But mostly—Elara.

I pull up to my house, cutting the engine. The place is quiet, untouched by the chaos of the world outside. A simple structure, built for solitude. It's nothing extravagant, but it's mine. A refuge. I'd suspected that the Council would have people watching it but there's no one in sight. I don't smell anything suspicious either.

Inside, I move on instinct, shedding my jacket, toeing off my boots. The house smells the same as always—faint traces of cedar and worn leather, the lingering scent of coffee from this morning. But there's a heaviness in the air that has nothing to do with the room itself. It's inside me.

I find myself at my desk, fingers tracing the edge of a photo album I haven't opened in a long time. It's worn at the corners, the spine creased from years of handling.

I flip it open.

The first image is of my parents. My mother's smile, warm and steady, her dark eyes full of quiet strength. My father beside her, taller, his expression more reserved but no less proud. A life built on discipline, on honor. A legacy of calculated decisions, of knowing when to fight and when to walk away.

I was raised with that understanding.

And yet, here I am.

I turn the page. An old photo of me and Ethan, years younger, arms slung over each other's shoulders after a sparring match. Blood on our lips, grins on our faces. We were taught to be survivors, to be careful. Not reckless.

So why am I being reckless now?

Elara's face slips into my mind, unbidden. The way she stood at the meeting, her presence commanding even when she didn't say a word. The way my own voice had changed when I spoke to her, softer, steadier. It hadn't gone unnoticed.

Cassian saw it.

And if he saw it, others would too.

I shut the album, my jaw tightening.

This is a weakness.

I can't afford weakness.

The Council would use it if they ever found out. They'd use her to control me, to push me into a deal, to force my hand. And if not them, then someone else. The government. The enemies we don't even see yet.

The moment my emotions became involved, I stopped being untouchable.

If I keep this up, if I keep fighting at her side, what happens when the day comes that they put a knife to her throat and tell me to stand down? What would I do then?

I know the answer.

And it terrifies me.

I rake a hand through my hair, leaning back in my chair. Rationally, the choice is obvious. Step away. Let Cassian have her. Let them handle their war without me in the middle of it.

But the thought of walking away twists something deep inside my chest.

I've told myself it's just duty, just responsibility. That I stand by Elara because it's the right thing to do.

But it's more than that.

I know it.

And that's the real danger.

I press my hands against my face, exhaling slowly.

I should leave. Distance myself before this goes any further.

But I won't.

Because despite every rational part of me screaming to let her go, I already know?—

I can't.

Just like last time, another memory of an intimate moment with her accosts my consciousness. It's like the driver for a couple minutes and I am nothing but a passenger in my own body. Our bond makes the memory feel real. It's almost like she's in the room with me:

I shouldn't touch her.

She's pacing, frustration pouring off her in waves. Her movements are sharp, her breathing shallow, her hands clenched at her sides. Every muscle in her body is coiled tight, locked in battle with something I can't see.

I want to smooth the tension away. Want to feel her give in, just for a second.

She stops, and before she can react, I step into her space. One hand at her waist, the other sliding up her arm, my fingers skimming the bare skin at her shoulder.

She gasps, and I feel the ripple of her response, the tremor that betrays her.

Her pupils darken. Her lips part.

I shift closer, pressing just enough for her to feel the heat of my body, to remind her of the pull that neither of us can ignore.

She exhales shakily. "Adrian ? —"

"I know," I murmur. I don't let go.

Her pulse pounds beneath my fingers. The scent of her—wild and electric, something untamed—winds around me, filling my lungs. My blood turns molten, thick with want.

If I kissed her now, I don't think she'd stop me.

But I don't.

Instead, I run my thumb along her lower lip, feeling the softness, the warmth.

She shudders.

I pull back before I do something reckless.

But not before I see the way her breath still comes fast. Not before I catch the way her gaze lingers on my mouth.

I come to, feeling waves of euphoria. She feels tethered to my soul. I can't seem to let her go.