Page 24 of Heart of the Rebel Mate (Wolf Billionaire #5)

CHAPTER 24

ELARA

T he stench of blood and scorched wood clings to the air. Smoke lingers in the corners of the rebellion's hideout, curling in through cracks in the stone walls. Every breath tastes of ash and sweat. The sounds of shifting rubble and quiet groans echo through the ruins, underscoring the grim reality of what remains after the attack.

The rebellion is still standing, but only barely.

This was supposed to be our stronghold. A safe haven.

We had spent months building this, planning for this, fortifying every inch to withstand an assault. The hours of strategy meetings, the sleepless nights, the careful maneuvering—it was all supposed to matter. But the Council tore through it like it was nothing. Like our effort, our blood, our sacrifices, meant nothing.

Fury curdles in my stomach, but beneath it, there's something worse—guilt.

Because when the battle was at its most chaotic, when my people needed me the most, I had given in. Let go.

The moment with Adrian still clings to me, wrapping around my thoughts like a vice. The heat of his hands, the burn of his mouth, the desperate way we had taken each other like nothing else in the world mattered. And for those fleeting, reckless moments, nothing had.

I had wanted him more than I had wanted victory.

And now we are left with ruin.

I move through the wreckage with purpose, picking my way over fallen beams and broken stone. Every part of me aches from the fight, muscles tight with exhaustion, but there's no time to dwell on it. The damage to our base is worse than I expected. Some structures are beyond saving—gaping holes in the walls, ceilings caved in. But other areas, though compromised, can be stabilized if we act fast.

"Get that side reinforced!" I call out to a group of rebels struggling to lift a fractured beam. "If the rest of the wall goes, we'll lose this whole section."

They hesitate for half a second before obeying, and I recognize the look in their eyes. Doubt, slowly shifting into something else—trust.

I've spent so long trying to prove myself through words, through defiance and speeches. But here, now, knee-deep in the wreckage, I can see that action speaks louder. I don't just order—I lift alongside them, press my hands against the grit and the blood, shoulder the weight of our survival. And they see it. They feel it.

A sharp movement catches my attention.

"Over here!" someone shouts.

A section of collapsed stone shifts, revealing a figure trapped beneath the wreckage. A man—one of ours—his breathing shallow, his leg twisted unnaturally beneath the debris.

I kneel beside him without hesitation. "Stay with me," I say, voice firm but steady. "We're getting you out."

His fingers grip my wrist, desperate, and I nod once before turning to the others. "We need to move this carefully. If we shift it too fast, it could crush him."

They listen. They trust. And together, we pull him free.

This is what leadership looks like. Not just standing at the front of a battlefield, but pulling people from the rubble. Holding their weight. Making sure they stand again.

But as we work, as I issue orders, my mind keeps betraying me.

Flashes of the fight. The way I had shifted, not because I had to, but because I wanted to. Because something deep inside me needed to let go, to become something wild and unshackled.

And Adrian. His eyes on me. The way he looked at me like I was his world, his war.

The way I had let him take me in the dark, against the wall, in the midst of destruction.

I shake the thoughts off, shoving them deep.

Cassian is missing.

Not physically—he's here, moving through the wreckage like the rest of us—but he's distant. Withdrawn.

I watch him from the corner of my eye as I issue more orders, directing efforts to secure the eastern wing of the base. He lingers near the edge of the ruins, away from the main group, his expression unreadable.

During the battle, his movements had been erratic—ruthless one moment, hesitant the next. Something in him is unraveling, but he's keeping it close to the chest.

I find him alone near the remains of what was once a storage room, sifting through broken crates like he's looking for something.

"You disappeared," I say.

Cassian glances up. "I was gathering intelligence."

I fold my arms. "Convenient excuse."

His jaw tenses. "You think I ran?"

"I think you've been acting strange since Isla joined us. And in the middle of the fight, you hesitated. That's not like you."

Cassian exhales sharply and runs a hand through his hair. "You're reading too much into things."

I step closer. "Am I?"

His gaze flickers—just for a second—but it's enough. He's hiding something. But this isn't the time to pry it out of him. Not yet.

So I let it go.

For now.

But as I look around at the broken remnants of everything we built, the weight of our loss presses down on me.

I had fought. I had survived. I had given in to something primal, something forbidden, even as my people bled.

And now, I will have to live with it.

I square my shoulders.

Because whatever happens next, I won't make the same mistake again.

The tension in my shoulders refuses to loosen, even as the dust settles. The rebellion survived, but at a cost. We lost people. We're exposed. And the weight of leadership presses down harder than ever.

I should be with them—should be strategizing, helping, doing something useful. Instead, I find myself walking these quiet halls, my mind heavy with everything I should have done differently.

But then?—

I barely make it three steps down the corridor before I feel him.

Adrian.

I don't know if it's the mate bond or my own damn instincts, but I feel his presence before I see him.

He's leaning against a doorframe, arms crossed, the dim torchlight casting sharp shadows across his face. His shirt is loose, the bandages from his injuries peeking out at the collar, but he looks steadier than before. Stronger.

Something in me unravels.

"You're supposed to be resting," I say, though the words come out softer than I intended.

His lips curve slightly. "You're supposed to be sleeping."

Neither of us moves. The hallway is quiet, the world outside this space muffled by stone and smoke. The battle still lingers in my bones, but something else rises to the surface now, thick and suffocating.

Adrian pushes off the doorframe, closing the distance between us in slow, measured steps.

I should step back. I should say something, anything to break the tension. But I don't. I can't.

He stops just close enough that I can feel his heat.

"You scared the hell out of me back there," he murmurs.

I swallow hard. "You almost died."

His hand lifts—hesitates—then brushes his fingers along my jaw, trailing the edge of my cheek. The touch is featherlight, but it destroys me.

Everything inside me tightens.

I don't want to feel this.

But I do.

Gods, I do.

His thumb grazes my bottom lip, and I part them before I can stop myself. His eyes darken, something raw flickering behind them.

"Elara." My name is a whisper, reverent, full of something unspoken.

I don't let him finish.

I close the space between us, crashing my lips against his, tasting the aftermath of battle and the fire that's been simmering between us for too long.

Adrian doesn't hesitate. His hands grip my waist, pulling me flush against him, and I feel the strength of him, the heat of him, the need coiled tight beneath his skin.

We stumble backward, into the room behind us. The door slams shut.

Then there's only fire.

His hands roam, rough and desperate, tracing every inch of skin he can reach. My breath hitches as he lifts me, pressing me against the wall, his body fitting against mine like we were made for this.

His mouth finds my throat, teeth scraping lightly, teasing.

I arch into him, into the friction, the unbearable tension winding tighter and tighter.

My hands slip beneath his shirt, fingers mapping the hard planes of his chest. He shudders beneath my touch, a low growl rumbling in his throat.

The sound ignites something dangerous in me.

I rake my nails down his spine, and he hisses, eyes burning as they meet mine. Then his lips are on me again—hungrier, rougher.

I press my palm against him, against the thick, hard length of him straining through his pants, and Adrian shakes .

His grip tightens on my hips, his forehead dropping to mine as he curses under his breath. "You have no idea what you do to me."

I do. I know. Because I feel it too, this unbearable, burning need.

For a moment, I forget the guilt, forget the battle, forget everything but this man.

He presses his hips against my hand, a slow, deliberate roll, and my breath catches. He's so hard , so ready , and gods, I want to give in.

But the rebellion is still licking its wounds. Our people are still counting on us.

And I can't lose myself in this—not completely.

His lips brush my ear, his voice rough and low. "If you keep touching me like that, I won't be able to stop."

I want to tell him not to stop. That I don't care.

But I do.

Because when this happens— when , not if —I don't want it to be because we're desperate and bleeding and drowning in everything we've lost.

I want it to be ours.

So, with every ounce of strength I have left, I pull back.

Adrian groans, his hands flexing against my waist, as if he's physically restraining himself from dragging me back.

I rest my forehead against his chest, breathing hard, trying to steady the frantic beat of my pulse.

"We should go," I whisper, but I don't move.

His fingers curl under my chin, tipping my face up to his. His gaze is molten, but there's something else there too— restraint.

"Not yet," he murmurs.

And so we stay like that, caught between what we want and what we can't have.

Not yet.

I thought he meant way down the line after we're done with the rebellion, but he only wanted the place to become more private. Once we were alone, we went to town on each other, as the kids say.

Adrian's lips trail fire over my skin, his breath ragged, his need barely restrained. My fingers twist in his hair, dragging him closer, urging him on.

He groans against my throat, the sound vibrating through me, making my pulse stutter. His hands grip my waist, rough and desperate, like he's afraid to let go.

And I don't want him to.

I need this. I need him.

His mouth moves lower, over the swell of my breast, his teeth grazing sensitive skin. My back arches instinctively, my body pleading for more, for all of him.

Then, with a sharp tug of his teeth, my bra gives way, the fabric tearing as he rips it from me. A gasp leaves my lips, half surprise, half pleasure, as cool air rushes over my exposed skin.

"Adrian," I whisper, his name a breathless plea.

He growls in response, a deep, primal sound that sends heat pooling between my thighs. His hands skim down my sides, gripping my hips before flipping me onto my back.

There's no hesitation now, no more restraint.

He settles between my legs, pressing himself against me, and I feel the hard, aching length of him through the remaining fabric between us. I shudder, desperate, needy.

And then—finally—he thrusts into me.

A broken moan rips from my throat.

He buries his face in my neck, his breath hot, uneven. "Gods, Elara..." His voice is raw, wrecked, like he's barely holding himself together.

I cling to him, nails digging into his back as he moves, each thrust deep, demanding, perfect.

It's not slow. It's not gentle.

It's passion and fury and need tangled together, an undeniable force that consumes us both.

He takes me higher, pushes me over the edge, and when I shatter, I scream his name.

He follows a heartbeat later, his body tightening, a guttural groan breaking free from his lips as he spills into me.

For a moment, we stay like that, tangled, breathless, lost in the aftershocks of something bigger than both of us.

But the world doesn't stay silent forever.

Later

We lay tangled in the aftermath, my head resting on his chest, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my back. His touch is warm, soothing, but my thoughts have already begun to drift.

I should move. I should pull away. But I don't.

His voice is quiet when he finally speaks. "You know this changes everything."

I close my eyes.

I know.

But right now, I don't care.

At least, that's what I tell myself.

Because as the minutes stretch on, as his breathing evens out and the silence grows, my mind starts pulling away from him.

From this.

Reality sinks its claws in.

The rebellion was attacked.

The place we've built, the movement we've fought for—it's been torn apart. We're still standing, but barely.

My people need me.

And yet, here I am, lying in Adrian's arms, indulging in pleasure when I should be planning, strategizing.

A knot forms in my stomach. Guilt.

Not because of him —never because of him.

But because I don't have the luxury of moments like this.

Not when everything we've worked for is on the verge of crumbling.

I shift slightly, careful not to wake him. My gaze drifts to the ceiling, to the cracks in the stone, the remnants of destruction from the battle.

What now?

I don't have the answer.

But I know one thing.

When the sun rises, we'll have to be ready for whatever comes next.