Page 3 of Heart of the Rebel Mate (Wolf Billionaire #5)
CHAPTER 3
ELARA
T he soft rustle of papers in my hands feels deafening against the silence of the meeting room. The university had been cryptic in its instructions—there would be potential investors at this meeting, and I was to present and answer their questions. No names, no hints, just a time and place. It was maddeningly vague, but I'd learned long ago to adapt to whatever chaos was thrown my way.
The meeting room is a pristine box of glass and steel, sterile and unyielding. The sun streams in through floor-to-ceiling windows, its warmth at odds with the chill of anxiety settling in my chest. I focus on my notes, willing myself to drown out the faint hum of the building's ventilation system and the echoes of hurried footsteps in the hallway outside. The first investor enters, followed by another, and then a small group, each one a study in controlled power. I straighten my blazer and remind myself to breathe.
This meeting could mean everything or nothing for my project, depending on how well I could sway the room.
The development coordinator, a composed woman named Natalie, had reassured me earlier. "The investors are enthusiastic about your vision," she'd said with a warm smile. "Be yourself. You've already impressed them at the gala."
Still, nerves danced under my skin as I arranged my notes, my fingers smoothing the edges of the papers. One by one, the investors trickled in, their confident steps echoing on the hardwood floors. I recognized a few from the gala, their faces polite but unreadable. Small talk filled the room as they took their seats—an undercurrent of casual conversation masking the quiet tension of what was to come.
The door swings open, and a scent hits me before I even look up—fresh pine and cold winter air, sharp and achingly familiar. My heart lurches, the memory of it slamming into me like a storm. It's a scent I haven't smelled in years, one I never thought I'd encounter again.
My breath catches as Cassian Veyne strides in. His sharp eyes, a piercing silver that once felt like home, sweep across the room before landing on me. He hasn't changed much. His dark hair is neatly styled, just slightly unruly at the edges, and his tailored black suit fits him like it was made to emphasize the lean strength of his frame. His sharp jawline, dusted with the faintest shadow of stubble, remains as striking as ever, and his skin holds the same warm tone I used to trace with my fingertips. He still moves with that quiet authority, every step deliberate, the kind that once made me feel safe and invincible—until it made me feel like I wasn't enough.
"Miss Thorne," he says, his tone polite, formal, a dagger wrapped in velvet.
"Mr. Veyne," I reply, my voice steady even as my chest tightens. My fingers dig into the folder in front of me, grounding myself against the flood of memories crashing over me.
Cassian takes a seat at the far end of the table, his movements unhurried, every inch of him exuding control. The sight of him here, in this room, is enough to make my stomach twist. Once, he was my fated mate—a bond I thought would last forever. We'd had something extraordinary, or at least I believed we did.
I loved him with everything I had, and for a time, I thought he felt the same. Our relationship had been intense, passionate, but also easy in a way that felt natural. I'd trusted him with every part of myself. And then, slowly, he began to pull away. At first, I hadn't noticed. He was busy, I told myself. Distracted. But the distance between us grew until I couldn't ignore it anymore.
When I confronted him, his words gutted me. "You're too human for me, Elara," he'd said, his voice calm, detached, as if he weren't tearing my world apart. "This isn't what I need."
The rejection shattered me. The bond I'd believed was unbreakable had meant nothing to him. He'd walked away without a second thought, leaving me to pick up the pieces alone. I moved to a new city, deleted his number, and built walls so high I thought nothing could get through. And now, here he is, sitting across from me as if none of it ever happened.
The meeting begins, but it's all a blur. I go through the motions, presenting my project with practiced ease, answering questions without faltering. All the while, I can feel Cassian's gaze on me, heavy and unrelenting. I don't look at him—I can't. Not without risking everything I've worked so hard to rebuild.
When the meeting ends, the investors rise, their polite murmurs filling the room as they file out. Cassian doesn't move. He stays seated, his silver eyes fixed on me, and for a moment, the air between us feels unbearably heavy.
Finally, he stands, his movements slow and deliberate as he approaches. "You've done well," he says, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. "You've come a long way."
I meet his gaze, my expression carefully neutral. "Thank you," I reply, my voice sharper than I intend.
His jaw tightens, a flicker of something unspoken crossing his face. "Be careful," he says after a moment. "Not everyone in that room wants to see you succeed."
The warning feels like a challenge, but I refuse to rise to it. Instead, I gather my notes and leave the room, my steps steady and deliberate. I don't look back. Whatever Cassian Veyne is doing here, it doesn't matter. He's the past, and I've spent too long rebuilding my life to let him shake it now.
The room hums with fake-ass laughter and pretentious conversations, and I curse my fucking department head for dumping this bullshit on me, leaving me to beg for money like some desperate salesperson. Clutching a glass of champagne, I scan the room, every polished face making me want to get the hell out of here.
The scent hits me before I see him—clean, sharp, and irritatingly familiar. My gaze snaps to the bar, and there he is. Adrian Kane, leaning casually against the polished wood, his dark suit perfectly tailored, the loosened tie giving him an air of effortless control. He looks so at ease it grates, even in a room full of people trained to pretend they own the place.
Our eyes meet, and for a moment, his brows lift slightly, as if he's genuinely surprised to see me here. Then, just as quickly, his expression shifts into something unreadable, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He pushes off the bar, moving toward me with that deliberate, unhurried grace that's as infuriating as it is magnetic.
"Elara Thorne," he says smoothly, his voice carrying just enough curiosity to make it sting. "I didn't expect to see you here. What brings you to an event like this?"
"Adrian," I reply, my voice even, though my grip on the champagne flute tightens slightly. "Should I be asking you the same thing?"
He chuckles, a low, rich sound that seems to draw attention without him even trying. "Fair enough," he says, tilting his head slightly. "Though I have to admit, I didn't peg you for the networking type."
"Networking," I say, letting the word hang between us for a moment before I tilt my glass toward him. "Interesting assumption. Are you suggesting I'm here to beg for money?"
His grin sharpens, the faintest glint of amusement flashing in his eyes. "I wouldn't put it that bluntly," he says, though the tone suggests he very much would. "But it's not exactly your usual scene, is it?"
"And this is yours?" I counter, arching a brow. "Though I suppose it's easier for you to show up and look interested when the Council sends you to meddle."
His grin widens, his expression maddeningly calm. "Meddling, is it?" he says lightly, stepping closer, his voice dipping just enough to feel more private. "Maybe I'm just here for the free champagne."
"Of course you are," I reply, meeting his gaze head-on. "And I'm sure the Council has nothing to do with it."
He chuckles again, the sound low and infuriatingly warm.
As I lower my glass, movement near the bar catches my attention. My breath stalls as I spot him—Cassian. His presence feels like a physical blow, the room narrowing around him. He stands straight-backed, his dark suit as impeccable as ever, his gaze scanning the crowd with practiced ease. My pulse quickens, and I instinctively step closer to Adrian, my fingers tightening slightly around the stem of my glass.
Adrian notices the shift immediately, his eyes narrowing as he studies me. "You alright?" he asks, his tone softer, edged with curiosity.
"I'm fine," I say too quickly, forcing a smile that feels brittle. "I just—" My gaze flickers back toward Cassian, and I swallow hard, shifting slightly so Adrian's frame blocks my line of sight. "I need to go."
Before I can move, Adrian tilts his head, his expression sharpening as his gaze follows mine briefly. Though he doesn't seem to piece it together, he steps into my space just enough to shield me further. "What's going on?" he asks, his voice lower now, more insistent.
"Nothing," I say, my voice clipped. "Just—just let me pass."
"Not buying it," he murmurs, his hand moving quickly to catch my wrist as I turn to leave. "Come on," he says, his tone leaving no room for argument.
"Adrian—" I start, but he's already moving, tugging me gently but firmly away from the main floor. My protests falter as he weaves us through the crowd, his grip steady but not harsh, his broad frame keeping me out of sight.
He tugs me into a shadowed alcove tucked near one of the side entrances. The space is narrow, the walls cool stone, and the noise of the crowd outside muffles slightly. My back presses against the rough surface, and Adrian stands just inches away, his frame blocking the light from the hallway.
Suddenly, a pulse of energy hums through my veins, unbidden but not unwelcome. I see something shift in his expression, a momentary break in his composure as his body leans just slightly closer.
"Adrian," I say, though the warning in my voice lacks conviction.
His scent surrounds me—dark spice and something distinctly him—and the air feels impossibly thick. My wolf pushes against the barriers I've spent years fortifying, and the energy between us swells, electric and undeniable.
"You're infuriating," I whisper.
"And you're impossible," he counters, his gaze dropping to my lips before snapping back to my eyes.
The air shifts, charged with something neither of us wants to name. His hand, still on my wrist, loosens its grip but doesn't pull away. I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything but feel—the heat of his body, the intensity of his gaze, the pull of the bond we've both been fighting.
It's Adrian who moves first, his head dipping just slightly, enough to close the distance but not enough to cross the line. His lips hover over mine, a breath away, and I'm torn between closing the gap and shoving him back.
A burst of laughter from the crowd jolts us apart. The spell shatters, leaving us staring at each other, raw and exposed.
He steps back with the mask of control slipping back into place. "Good luck with your project, Elara. You'll need it."
He's gone before I can respond, leaving me in the shadows with my thoughts and the knowledge of what almost happened.
Fuck .