Page 35 of Heart of the Rebel Mate

He sighs, closing the folder. "Right, then. A few more hours or days should shake all of this out of you. We'll continue this later."

Hours pass. To say I am exhausted would be an understatement the size of Chicago. I press my palms flat against the cold metal of the table. My wrists are still sore from the cuffs, creating a dull ache beneath my skin, but I barely register the pain. My mind is elsewhere, replaying the last few minutes, the last few days—turning them over like broken glass, sharp and jagged in my thoughts. My thoughts go to Zara. I wonder if she's safe.

I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. The light overhead flickers slightly. It smells of stale air and antiseptic, a manufactured sterility that does nothing to mask the reality of this place.

A holding cell. A waiting room for something worse.

They haven't charged me yet. Haven't laid out the full weight of their accusations. But I know how this works. They don't need evidence—only suspicion. A single whisper in the right ear, a name written in the wrong report, and suddenly, you are a danger. An enemy. A problem to be erased.

I close my eyes.

I think of Calloway. Is he still alive?

Will I be, when this is over?

A soft knock startles me.

The door opens, and a guard steps in. Not the one from before. This one is taller, with sharp eyes that miss nothing. He gestures for me to stand.

"Come with me."

I hesitate for half a second, then push myself up. My legs are stiff, my body protesting after hours of sitting, but I move without complaint. The feeling of blood rushing down my legs is equal parts painful and soothing. I almost ask–no, beg– for a glass of water, but I know my pleas will fall on deaf ears. This guard doesn't have any authority.

I don't ask where we're going.

It won't change anything.

They lead me to another room. Larger. Still empty, except for a single chair positioned in the center.

The guard gestures toward it. "Sit."

I do.

A moment later, the door opens again, and someone new enters.

Not an enforcer. Not a guard.

A sharply dressed woman, with calculating eyes that are dark as ink, carries herself with the quiet authority of someone who does not need to raise her voice to command attention.

She sets a folder on the table and opens it with deliberate precision.

"Elara Voss," she says, as if testing how my name tastes on her tongue. "You've caused quite a stir."

I meet her gaze, saying nothing.

She waits, as if expecting a reaction. When I give her none, she smiles—just slightly, just enough to make my stomach tighten with unease.

"I'm here to offer you an opportunity," she continues, flipping through the file. "You see, the Council doesn't need you to be guilty. They only need you to be useful."

I keep my expression carefully blank, but inside, something shifts.

An offer.

Not freedom. Not absolution.

A deal.

She looks up, studying me. "You're an intelligent woman, Ms. Voss. You must know how this ends if you refuse."

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