Page 8 of Heart of the Rebel Mate (Wolf Billionaire #5)

CHAPTER 8

ADRIAN

T he library hums with quiet energy—the rustle of pages turning, the occasional creak of a chair, the distant shuffle of footsteps. The scent of aged parchment and ink lingers, grounding and familiar, but none of it holds my attention.

I shouldn't be here.

My fingers tighten around the spine of an old record, but I haven't turned a page in minutes. The words blur, ink bleeding into ink, meaningless. I shift in my chair, rolling my shoulders, trying to shake the restless energy knotting beneath my skin.

This isn't where I work. I don't need public archives when I have access to the Council's private records. But I came anyway.

For research, I tell myself.

But my gaze keeps drifting.

And then, as if the universe has finally decided to stop taunting me?—

She walks in.

Elara.

She moves through the entrance with the same quiet confidence she carries everywhere, like she belongs, like nothing can shake her. A bag slung over her shoulder, fingers idly toying with the strap, her expression focused. Her hair is tied back, but loose strands fall against her cheek, and she tucks one behind her ear without thinking.

Heat coils low in my stomach, unwelcome, familiar.

I force my gaze back to my book, jaw clenching, willing myself to focus.

But I still hear her.

She flips page after page, too fast to absorb the words, then exhales sharply, shifting in her chair. I look up and see a strand of hair fall loose, slipping against her cheek. She pushes it back, absentminded, before reaching for another book from the stack beside her.

The title catches my eye first.

Theories on Fated Bonds: Severance, Suppression, and Anomalies.

My breath locks in my throat.

Why the hell is she reading about severing bonds?

She lets out a quiet sigh, the sound barely audible but enough to make me push back from my chair. Before I realize what I'm doing, I'm crossing the room, the soft tread of my boots muffled by the thick carpet.

"Elara," I greet, my voice low enough not to disturb the few other patrons scattered throughout the space.

She stiffens at the sound of her name, her pen freezing mid-tap. Slowly, she turns, her green eyes narrowing as they meet mine.

"Adrian," she says, her tone flat, carefully neutral.

"Need help?" I nod toward the pile of records in front of her.

Her gaze flicks to the mess of documents, then back to me. "I'm fine."

I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms over my chest. "You don't look fine."

Her jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think she's going to snap at me. But then she leans back in her chair, exhaling slowly. "It's the historical zoning records," she admits grudgingly. "They're a mess. Half of them are mislabeled, and the rest are barely legible."

I glance at the stack, noting the faded ink and brittle edges of the papers. "Mind if I take a look?"

She hesitates, her fingers tightening around the pen. But eventually, she pushes one of the folders toward me. "Knock yourself out."

I pull out the chair across from her and sit, the worn leather creaking softly under my weight. As I scan the contents of the folder, I can feel her watching me, her gaze sharp and assessing.

The silence between us is heavy but not uncomfortable. I skim through the records, piecing together the fragmented information with a practiced eye. Years of analyzing intelligence reports for the Council have made me good at spotting patterns, at connecting dots most people miss.

"These documents are cross-referenced," I say after a moment, tapping one of the pages. "See here? This zoning regulation ties back to the municipal land grants from the same era. You'll need both sets to get a full picture."

Elara leans forward, her brow furrowing as she studies the page. "How did I miss that?" she mutters, more to herself than to me.

"You were too busy being frustrated," I say lightly.

She gives me a look, one eyebrow arching in warning. "Careful, Kane."

I chuckle softly, handing the folder back to her. "Relax, Thorne. I'm just here to help."

Her expression softens slightly, and for a moment, the tension between us eases. She glances at the folder, then back at me, her gaze lingering longer than it should.

"Thanks," she says quietly, her voice losing some of its sharpness.

I nod, leaning back in my chair. "Anytime."

For a while, we work in companionable silence, the quiet hum of the library wrapping around us. Elara's frustration fades as she delves into the records, her movements more focused. I watch the way her brow furrows, the way she tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear without realizing it.

"Adrian."

I blink, caught. She's staring, green eyes sharp.

"You're staring," she says, smirking.

I clear my throat, leaning forward. "Just making sure you're not about to burn the place down."

She rolls her eyes. "You're impossible."

"So I've been told."

The lightness between us never lasts.

"We need to talk about Cassian."

Her smirk vanishes. "No, we don't."

"Yes, we do," I say firmly.

Her hands curl into fists. "You've made your opinion clear. I don't need your protection."

I push back from the table, standing. "He's using you, Elara. You're a pawn in his rebellion."

Her jaw tightens. "And you're any better? You're the Council's lapdog, sent to watch me."

She's not wrong. But this— this is more than that.

"I've seen what happens to people who challenge them," I say quietly. "You're walking a fine line."

She laughs, bitter, standing abruptly. "And you think you're the one who'll save me?"

The air tightens between us, the mate bond flaring like a struck match.

"Elara," I murmur, stepping closer.

She stiffens, her breath catching. "Don't."

But I can't stop. The space between us shrinks, her rapid breaths loud in the silence. My wolf surges forward, the bond thrumming louder, undeniable.

"I'm not your enemy," I say, my voice quieter now, softer.

Her gaze flickers, uncertainty flashing across her face for the briefest moment. Her hand brushes the edge of the table, her fingers curling as if she's trying to anchor herself.

"You act like you care," she says, her voice trembling just enough for me to notice. "But I can't tell if it's because of the Council or... or something else."

The silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating.

I should step back.

I should .

But I don't.

The air between us vibrates, charged with something alive, something thrumming beneath my skin, wrapping itself around my ribs, pulling tight . The bond coils, unrelenting, invisible but there , a tether I can't sever, no matter how much I try.

"Elara."

Her name escapes before I can stop it, slipping past the last of my restraint, softer than I intend.

Her breath hitches.

She doesn't move. Doesn't blink.

Her eyes lock onto mine, and suddenly, nothing else exists.

The dim glow of the overhead lamps, the scratch of pens on paper, the distant whisper of pages turning—it all fades to static.

She sways, barely perceptible, like the pull is working against her will, like she feels it too but refuses to acknowledge it.

My pulse thrums, a steady, insistent beat against my throat.

I step closer.

She doesn't stop me.

The space between us is a breath, a heartbeat, nothing at all .

The warmth of her skin radiates through the inches of air that separate us, her scent wrapping around me—something familiar, something intoxicating, something I shouldn't be drowning in.

Her lashes flicker.

Her chest rises, falls—too fast, uneven.

My gaze dips.

Lips parted, her breath unsteady, her pulse hammering at the base of her throat. My fingers twitch at my sides, every instinct screaming at me to close the last of the distance, to chase the heat curling between us, to press forward until I can't stop .

The moment stretches, fragile, waiting to snap.

Her breath ghosts against my lips.

A shiver rolls down my spine.

Then—

She moves.

Not toward me.

Back .

The absence is immediate, a sharp, jarring cold that replaces the warmth between us.

"No."

Her voice is quiet, but the force behind it slams into me, cutting through whatever had wrapped around us seconds ago.

Her shoulders are rigid, hands clenched into fists at her sides, her breath still unsteady but now forced into something controlled, something calculated . The flicker in her eyes is gone, replaced with something cold, something distant.

"Whatever this is," she says, her voice clipped, each word deliberate, "it doesn't change anything."

A muscle in my jaw tightens.

The bond pulls— fights —but she shoves it down, shoves me down.

"You're still part of the Council." Her breath shudders, just for a second, before she tamps it down. "You're still working against me."

I open my mouth to argue, to tell her she's wrong, but the words die before they reach my lips. Because deep down, I know she's not entirely wrong.

"I'm not trying to work against you," I say finally, my voice softer now. "I just?—"

"Just what?" she demands, her voice cracking with emotion.

I take a step back, my hands curling into fists at my sides as I try to regain control.

"I just don't want to see you get hurt," I say quietly, the admission feeling like a weight I didn't realize I was carrying.

Her eyes soften for a fraction of a second before the fire returns. "I can take care of myself, Adrian."

She grabs her bag and the stack of records she'd been working through, her movements brisk and deliberate. I watch as she heads for the exit, her boots clicking softly against the polished floor.

I don't call after her.

The library feels emptier without her, the air colder somehow. I sink back into the chair she left behind, my hands braced against the table as I stare at the mess of documents and books she abandoned.

The book she had been reading was still there, opened on the page she had left it on. My breath locks in my throat.

Slowly, I reach for it, fingers brushing against the worn pages. The title alone is enough to send a sharp, unwelcome pulse through my chest. I flip it open, skimming through the dense text until a passage catches my eye.

"Though true severance of a fated bond is rare, history has documented isolated cases where the connection between mates has weakened or faded due to external interference. The method of forced diminishment remains largely theoretical, as there is no known record of it being successfully executed in modern history."

My fingers tighten around the pages, my jaw clenching.

I drag a hand down my face, forcing my breath to steady. Maybe it's just research. Maybe she's just covering every possible angle, just trying to understand.

I shove the book back onto the table and push to my feet, the chair scraping against the floor.

I can't let this happen. Not without answers.