Page 108 of Heart of the Rebel Mate

His expression softens. "Not yet."

"Then you'd better survive long enough to change that," I say, clapping a hand on his shoulder before standing.

Gary grins, some of the tension melting away. "I'll do my best."

I nod and move on, weaving through the camp. There are more people to check on. More hands to steady, more fears to quiet.

Because tomorrow, everything changes.

The night air is cold, but my skin is hot.

I find her standing near the edge of the clearing, away from the others, staring out into the dark expanse of trees. Her posture is rigid, hands clenched at her sides, like she's holding something in.

She hears me approach but doesn't turn.

"We're ready," she says. "Everyone's in position. The next time we walk into that stronghold, it'll be for war."

I step closer, my chest almost pressing to her back. "And you? Are you ready?"

She lets out a breath, slow and measured. "I don't know," she admits. "It feels different this time. Like everything's about to change."

"It is."

She turns then, and I see it—the weight in her eyes, the fire that's always burned there flickering just a little unsteady. I know that feeling. The edge of something vast and unknown, where one wrong move could mean losing everything.

I reach for her hand. "Come with me."

She doesn't hesitate.

The room we find in the hideout is small, but there's a good, sturdy bed in it. The rest of it feels like an abandoned supply shack—wooden beams worn down by time, dust clinging to the stale air, the scent of old wood and forgotten things lingering. It doesn't matter. None of it does.

Because the moment the door shuts behind us, she turns.

Elara crashes into me, her body pressing flush against mine, her lips claiming me with a hunger that burns through every last thought in my head. Her fingers slide into my hair, gripping, tilting my head to the angle she wants, forcing me to yield to her. There's no hesitation this time—no cautious exploration, no waiting for me to take control.

She wants.

She's taking.

A groan rumbles in my throat as she bites my lower lip, a sharp sting that makes my pulse hammer. My hands fall to her waist, but before I can grip her, she shoves me back, pinning me against the wooden door with a force that makes it creak.

Her breath fans against my lips. "Not tonight, Adrian."

A shiver runs down my spine at the way she says it—low, firm, possessive.

I want to fight her for control. Want to flip her against the door, press her beneath me, make her gasp my name like she always does. But there's something in her eyes—something raw, something desperate—and I realize this isn't just about pleasure for her.

It's about taking something back.

Letting her have it is the easiest choice I've ever made.

She undoes my shirt with deliberate, agonizing slowness, her fingertips grazing my skin as she peels the fabric away. Goosebumps rise in the wake of her touch. My breathing is uneven, but she—she's perfectly composed, watching me like she already owns me.

Then she leans in, her lips brushing my ear, her voice a whisper of sin. "On your knees."

A growl vibrates through my chest, but something dark and electric surges through me at the command. I don't fight it. I drop.

She's already half-undressed, the last of her clothes sliding from her skin, and when I look up at her, I forget how to breathe. She's a vision—fierce and unshaken, her body taut with tension, with need.

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