Page 3 of Heart of the Rebel Mate

Why do I care? He's with the Council, the very entity that looks at people like me and my university as threats to their order. Even if they haven't said it outright, the pretense of polite engagement is paper-thin. His criticisms should roll off me, but they stick, sharp and irritating.

Stay away, I tell myself, though the words lack conviction.

And then, I hear his voice.

I spot him moments later, surrounded by a group of well-dressed attendees. His voice carries, smooth and authoritative, as he picks apart my project with clinical precision. Words like "potentially destabilizing" and "unrealistic" hit my ears, each one igniting a spark of indignation.

Before I fully register my movement, I'm stepping into the circle. "It's easy to criticize from a distance," I say, my voice sharper than I intend, cutting through their chuckles. Heads turn, but my gaze locks onto his. "Have you considered the potential benefits, or are you only focused on the risks?"

Adrian's expression doesn't shift, but there's something in his eyes—a flicker of intrigue or amusement, perhaps. "Risks and benefits are two sides of the same coin," he replies evenly. "My job is to ensure one doesn't outweigh the other."

"And mine is to build bridges, not walls," I counter, my tone steady but laced with defiance.

His lips curve into something resembling a smile, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "An admirable sentiment. Let's hope it's enough."

"Your idea of progress," Adrian says, his voice slicing cleanly through the murmurs, "is an idealistic fantasy. A sustainable city hub for humans and werewolves? Last month alone, twenty hate crimes against werewolves were reported in human-majority areas. And that's just the official count. Do you really think a few buildings will erase that?"

I step forward, my nails biting into my palms as I hold his gaze. "Naive?" The word tumbles out like a challenge. "This project isn't some pipe dream. It's about undoing decades of segregation and hostility. It's about proving we can do more than just coexist—we can thrive."

His brow lifts slightly, his expression cutting and calm as he steps closer. "And when history repeats itself? When human parents pull their kids from shared schools because they don't 'feel safe' around werewolves? When the first clash in one of your shared spaces reignites old tensions? Tell me, what then?"

I don't flinch, meeting the heat of his challenge head-on. "The hub is built for exactly those challenges. Shared schools with mediation programs. Housing designed to respect privacy without fostering division. Public spaces that encourage interaction, not isolation. I've planned for the cracks—you just refuse to see what could be built around them."

His eyes narrow slightly, the sharp angles of his face softening for the briefest moment as though he's considering my words. "You think your plans are enough to shift centuries of distrust?" His voice drops, quieter now but no less intense. "Last year, an entire werewolf community was forced to flee a border town after a riot sparked over a human's false accusation. That's the reality you're trying to build over."

"You think I don't know the risks?" My voice rises, not in volume but in weight, pressing against the air between us. "You're right—centuries of damage won't disappear overnight. But I won't let fear stop us from trying. Someone has to take the first step."

The corner of his mouth lifts slightly, though the movement doesn't reach his eyes. "You're bold," he says, almost under his breath. "I'll give you that. But boldness doesn't stop things from falling apart when pressure mounts."

He steps closer, his voice dropping lower as if to ensure no one but me hears. "And when it does, will you still stand here? Or will you let the people you claim to protect bear the fallout alone?"

The proximity unsettles me, his gaze heavy and unwavering, cutting through every defense I've built. My breath catches, my throat tight as the weight of his words presses against me.

"I will," I say, my voice barely above a whisper, but it holds steady. "Because I believe in this. And because people—werewolves and humans—deserve more than fear."

For a moment, his expression shifts. The sharp lines soften, and his lips part as though to respond. But then the flicker is gone, replaced by the carefully composed mask he wore before. "Belief," he murmurs, tilting his head slightly. "Let's hope it's enough."

The air between us hums, heavy and charged, as his gaze lingers. Around us, the crowd moves, their voices rising again, but none of it reaches me. I can't move, can't break the pull of his presence until he finally steps back, his eyes never leaving mine.

My heels click against the polished floor as I turn toward the exit, each step firm, measured. The cool air bites at my skin as I push through the doors, but the tension he left behind clings stubbornly to me. I pause, my breath uneven, and glance back.

Through the glass, Adrian stands apart from the crowd, the light casting a soft glow across his face. His gaze is still fixed on me, unblinking and piercing, as though tethering me to this moment. Heat blooms at the back of my neck, and I turn quickly, the pull of him stubbornly refusing to fade even as I disappear into the night.

CHAPTER 2

ADRIAN

The gala fades into the night, but Elara Thorne lingers in my thoughts. Her sharp defiance and conviction shouldn't have surprised me, but they did—and they've left an itch I can't quite scratch. Even now, as I sit in my study, her words echo, stirring something I can't quite place.

Her vision for the sustainable city hub—a place where humans and werewolves live side by side—is bold. Too bold, perhaps. It reminds me of Silvercliff.

Silvercliff was meant to be a beacon of hope. Decades ago, a small werewolf settlement led by a visionary alpha, Matthias Draven, forged an integrated community on the outskirts of human territories. Shared schools, mixed housing, and trade agreements brought an uneasy but promising peace. For a time, it worked. Until the Hunter's Panic—a human child vanished, and whispers of werewolf involvement ignited tensions. It didn't matter that the child was found days later, her death a tragic accident in the river. By then, the settlement was in flames, its residents either slaughtered or scattered. Matthias disappeared in the aftermath, his dream burned to ash alongside his home.

Silvercliff's ruins stand as a stark reminder that no matter how far we claim to have come, fear is never far from the surface.

Yes, years have passed since then. The world has advanced—technology has brought new tools for transparency, interspecies councils have been formed to mediate disputes, and education campaigns have tried to shift societal perceptions. But progress doesn't guarantee success. Prejudice and mistrust have proven resilient, lingering in the shadows despite the veneer of modernity. The Council's recent actions show as much. Their crackdown on human corporations trespassing on werewolf lands, their veto of joint ventures, and their insistence on stricter border patrols all speak to their belief that the divide cannot truly be bridged.

I lean back in my chair, the weight of these thoughts pressing against me. Her belief in what she's doing is undeniable—passionate, unwavering. But belief alone doesn't mend centuries of fear, doesn't erase the memories of places like Silvercliff.

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