Page 25 of Heart of the Rebel Mate (Wolf Billionaire #5)

CHAPTER 25

ADRIAN

T he Council thinks they're untouchable.

It's time to prove them wrong.

Ethan and I crouch in the shadows, the cool night air thick with the scent of damp earth and gasoline. The distant hum of the approaching convoy vibrates through my bones, growing louder, closer. A line of armored vehicles emerges from the treeline, headlights cutting harsh beams through the darkness, kicking up dust in their wake.

My fingers tighten around my rifle. Intel suggests they're transporting something critical—classified documents, weapons, maybe even prisoners. Whatever it is, it's important enough to warrant an armed escort.

I glance at Ethan. He gives a tight nod, fingers flexing over the grip of his rifle. He's focused, but I can sense the undercurrent of something else—anticipation, adrenaline. Maybe even anger.

The rest of our team is spread out along the ridge, silent, waiting. One word from me, and we move.

I raise my scope, tracking the convoy. The lead vehicle—a black military-grade truck reinforced with steel plates—moves with calculated precision. A standard patrol car follows, then another truck, then a van.

The van.

That's our target.

"They won't stop unless they have to," Ethan murmurs beside me. His voice is low, steady. Cold. "We need to force them into a bottleneck."

I smirk. "I had the same idea."

I lift two fingers in the air, signaling Isla and the others down below. A heartbeat later?—

Boom.

A massive explosion detonates near the front of the convoy, shaking the ground beneath us. A fireball erupts into the night, illuminating the surrounding forest in flickering orange light. The lead truck veers violently, tires screeching against asphalt before it slams into a tree with a sickening crunch.

For a split second, everything goes still.

Then chaos erupts.

Shouts echo through the night. Loyalist guards spill from the vehicles, rifles raised, scanning the treeline. They don't know where we are yet. That gives us the advantage.

"Take out the tires," I order.

Gunfire explodes from our position, precise and brutal. Ethan moves like a phantom beside me, his shots landing true. Rubber shreds, metal groans, and the remaining trucks swerve wildly. One crashes into a ditch, the driver's body slamming into the windshield.

The van—the one we need—keeps moving.

Not for long.

I don't think. I move.

Leaping from the ridge, I shift mid-air. Bones snap, muscle stretches, fur bristles over my skin. It's pain and power colliding in a breathless instant. My claws tear into the earth as I land hard on all fours, growling low in my throat.

Ethan follows, a dark shadow moving with lethal precision. He doesn't shift—he never does in combat—but he's just as dangerous this way.

A guard stumbles out of the van, fumbling with his rifle. Too slow.

I lunge, fangs sinking into his arm. He screams, the sound wet and gurgling as I toss him aside. Blood splatters the dirt.

"Man, move!" Ethan shouts.

A bullet whizzes past my ear. I dodge just in time, twisting, snarling. Another guard charges, knife flashing in the firelight. I meet him head-on, slamming into him with bone-crushing force. His scream dies as I rip his throat out, hot and metallic on my tongue.

Ethan doesn't hesitate. He steps over the body, firing three quick shots into another Loyalist trying to flee. His expression is unreadable, but his hands—his hands are steady.

The van screeches to a halt. Isla and another rebel tear the doors open, yanking the driver and passenger out with brutal efficiency.

Inside, crates are stacked against the walls, stamped with the Council's insignia.

"We got it," Isla confirms, her voice breathless but victorious. She shoves the last guard aside before slamming the van doors shut. "Let's move."

The remaining Loyalists try to rally, but it's too late. My rebels are already retreating into the night, the van roaring down the road.

Ethan exhales, lowering his rifle. The fight is over. We won.

But as I glance at him, watching the firelight flicker against his sharp features, I realize?—

For him, this isn't enough.

Not yet.

By the time the Council forces regroup, we're long gone.

Back at the hideout, the air is thick, charged with something sharp and heavy. The stolen crates sit in the center of the war room like a ticking bomb, waiting to explode.

The lanterns flicker, casting long shadows across the stone walls. Everyone is on edge, their silence louder than words. Isla stands stiffly, arms crossed, eyes sharp with anticipation. Ethan lingers by the crates, fingers twitching like he's ready to rip them open himself. And Elara—she's deadly still, her focus locked on the stolen cargo like she already knows something inside is going to change everything.

I don't realize I'm holding my breath until she steps forward and pries the lid off the first crate.

Inside, stacks of paper are bound together with thick black straps. Not just any documents. Personnel files. Strategy reports. The Council's secrets.

Ethan exhales, long and low. "This could change everything."

He's right.

I grab one of the bundles, flipping through pages filled with names, locations, encoded messages. The kind of information the rebellion has killed for.

But then Elara stills.

Something in the way she tenses sends a prickle of unease down my spine. She pulls a single sheet from the crate, smoothing it out with careful fingers. It's different from the others—rushed, not bound, like it was intercepted in the middle of something.

I step closer, my eyes skimming over the page.

A transcript.

A conversation.

And then—a name.

Cassian.

Ice floods my veins.

Elara reads faster, her breath coming in sharp, measured inhales. I see the exact moment she understands.

Cassian has been in contact with someone inside the Council.

Not just for intelligence gathering.

For negotiations.

The weight of the revelation slams into me like a punch to the ribs. I read the words again, searching for a loophole, some indication that this is part of the plan. But the way it's written—the careful, deliberate language—this isn't a ruse.

It's something else.

Something worse.

Betrayal.

I clench my jaw, forcing the snarl down my throat. Isla notices, her gaze flicking between me and Elara. "What is it?"

Elara doesn't answer. Her fingers curl around the paper, knuckles white.

Instead, she folds it, tucks it into her jacket.

Her expression is unreadable, but I know what she's thinking.

We need answers. Now.

The war room feels suffocating, the weight of the stolen intelligence pressing down on me like a vice. I grip the intercepted transcript tighter, the paper crumpling under my fingers. Cassian's name stares back at me, and the more I think about it, the more the pieces start to fit in ways I don't like.

It's not just this document. It's the way he's been acting—distant, hesitant, watching Isla too closely during the battle, like he was trying to decide something. It's the way he disappeared right when we needed him most.

And then there's the captured Council operative.

He'd been half-conscious, bloodied from the ambush, but when we started pressing for information, Cassian's name was the first thing out of his mouth.

I don't believe in coincidences.

I stalk through the hideout, my pulse pounding. The rebellion's forces are still regrouping from the attack, bodies moving like ghosts through the corridors, but I don't stop until I find him.

Cassian stands in the dim torchlight, speaking low with Isla. When I enter, she takes one look at me and steps back.

She knows.

Cassian turns, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. "Something on your mind?"

I toss the transcript onto the table between us. "Tell me why your name is on that."

He doesn't react at first, just picks up the page, skims it. His fingers don't even twitch. "Where did you find this?"

"You already know the answer," I growl. "The better question is, why the hell is the Council talking about you like you're one of them?"

Isla shifts uncomfortably, but she doesn't leave. Good. I want her to hear this.

Cassian exhales sharply, setting the paper down. "You're jumping to conclusions."

"Am I?" I step closer, letting the anger rise to the surface. "Because it's looking a hell of a lot like you're making deals behind our backs. Negotiating. With them."

Cassian's jaw tightens, but he doesn't deny it.

My hands curl into fists. I trusted him. Elara trusted him. And now?—

"What exactly are you accusing me of, Adrian?" His voice is calm, but there's an edge to it now, sharp and dangerous.

"I think you're playing both sides." I don't hesitate. "I think you're putting your own interests ahead of the rebellion, and I think you've been withholding intelligence—intel that could have saved lives."

His eyes darken. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "You hesitated in battle. You've been acting strange since Isla joined us. And now I find this? Tell me, Cassian, exactly how long have you been making deals with the people we're trying to destroy?"

His nostrils flare. "I've been keeping us alive."

"By what? Selling us out?"

"You think everything is black and white?" His voice rises now, matching mine. "You think we're just going to charge into war and magically come out victorious? There's more at play here than you understand."

I step right into his space, the tension crackling between us. "No. What I understand is that people are dead because of what you didn't tell us."

His gaze flickers. Just for a second. But I see it.

Doubt.

Regret.

Guilt.

Then, just as quickly, it's gone.

Cassian straightens, expression hardening. "You're letting your emotions get in the way, Adrian." His voice lowers, almost mocking. "Or is this really about the rebellion? Because from where I'm standing, you're thinking more with your dick than your head."

The words hit. My hands clench so hard my nails dig into my palms.

This isn't just about me. Or Elara.

This is about everything.

And Cassian just drew a line between us.

By the time I return to the base, dawn is creeping over the horizon, casting long shadows through the crumbling walls. The air is thick with the lingering scent of smoke and blood, but there's something else now—something stronger. Determination.

The rebels move with purpose, reinforcing weak points, treating the wounded, strategizing. The Council tried to break us, but all they did was forge something stronger.

And at the center of it all is Elara.

She stands atop a stack of crates, speaking to the gathered rebels, her voice carrying through the ruins like fire on the wind.

"They think we're beaten," she says, gaze sharp, shoulders squared. "They think this was enough to break us—to scare us into submission. But they don't understand what we've built here."

A murmur of agreement spreads through the crowd.

"They don't understand that every time they try to crush us, we only rise stronger." Her eyes sweep across the rebels, meeting each of them with unwavering conviction. "We are still here. We are still fighting. And I promise you—we will win."

A chorus of voices erupts in response.

Fists raised. Eyes burning with the same fire she carries.

Even after everything—the attack, the losses, the doubt—she still stands tall, unshaken.

She is the rebellion.

I grip the intercepted intelligence tighter in my hand. The documents we stole hold answers—secrets the Council never wanted us to see. And somewhere in the middle of it all, Cassian's betrayal lurks like a shadow.

I don't know what his endgame is. Not yet. But I do know this:

The rebellion's future, Elara's safety, everything we've fought for—they rest on the truth.

And I'll burn through whoever I have to in order to find it.