Page 34 of Heart of the Rebel Mate

Not one of them speaks.

I should have known better.

The Council's shadow stretches long, and fear is the leash that keeps people in line.

A few steps ahead, the lead enforcer speaks into his comm. "Target secured. Escorting now."

Target.

Not a person. Not a scholar. Just a nuisance to be contained.

The administration building looms ahead, a monolith of cold stone and glass. The doors open without a sound, and the moment I cross the threshold, I realize what's really going on. They aren't just going to run an interrogation, they're looking to make an example of me.

Inside, the air is sterile, humming with bureaucracy. Some say bureaucracy is our most efficient way of getting things done, but I've always seen it as an unfortunate custom of both human as well as werewolf culture.

The receptionist doesn't even blink as we pass. She merely presses a button, and a set of reinforced doors unlock with a mechanical hiss.

I am led down a narrow hallway with bare walls and lights so bright they hurt my retinas. The enforcers say nothing. There is no need.

They take me to a small room without windows or any distinctive features. All I see is a metal table and two chairs.

The cuffs come next. Cold steel snaps around my wrists, securing them to the table. It is unnecessary and insulting, but I don't protest. I notice that they are made out of silver. They will burn my skin if I struggle to get out of them. I am being treated like a mass murderer for some reason and although this makes my heart pound in my chest, I suddenly begin to find the whole thing vaguely amusing. It feels like a performance. Silver handcuffs, really? Why didn't they go ahead and lace them with wolfsbane so I'll understand we're deep in torture territory?

This is a game, and I have just become their newest piece.

The door clicks shut.

And I am alone.

For the first time since this began, I allow myself a single, shaky breath.

Then I steel myself for what comes next.

They leave me there for hours and I regret skipping lunch because my stomach growls and my vision swirls. By the time the door opens, my body is stiff and my mind is now a tangled mess of exhaustion and adrenaline.

A man steps inside. He wears a high-collared Council uniform. His posture is precise, and his gaze is made of steel. He places a thin folder on the table and sits across from me.

"Elara Voss." He says my name like a verdict. "You understand why you're here?"

I don't flinch. "Because someone wants me to be."

He doesn't appear amused. "Your project, your discussions with university leadership—they suggest alignment with dissenting ideologies." He opens the folder, flipping through pages of evidence. "Financial backing from questionable sources. Meetings that framed your designs as 'revolutionary.'" He looks at me. "What revolution were you planning?"

I grit my teeth. "My work is about architecture. Not politics."

The interrogator leans back. "You sound like Dean Calloway."

My pulse spikes. "Where is he?"

The man ignores my question. "We're more interested in your connections. Who encouraged you? Who funded you? Who else was involved?"

I glare at him. "You already have the answers you want. Why not get your mole to feed you all this information? And if they have, why are you wasting my time?" I was getting a bit angry.

He watches me. "Cooperation makes this easier."

For who?

I don't answer.

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