Page 37 of Heart of the Rebel Mate

I keep moving. The security checkpoints are automated at this hour with the night shift running on routine. I flash my credentials at the scanner, waiting for the small green light to grant me passage. It blinks once, then opens the reinforced doors with awhoosh.

I exhale gradually. The hardest part is yet to come.

Elara's cell is deep in the lower levels, past layers of surveillance and checkpoints designed to contain high-risk detainees. She shouldn't be here. She's not a criminal by any stretch of the imagination or interpretation of our constitution. But that doesn't matter to the Council. They see what they want to see.

My footsteps echo softly as I descend into the depths of the facility. The air grows heavier. The deeper you go, the harder it is to breathe, as if the walls themselves are pressing inward, trying to suffocate any last shred of resistance.

I pause before turning the last corner. A lone guard stands at her cell. He's young—new to the job. I can tell from the uncertainty in his stance. Good. That makes him easy to manipulate.

I approach with measured steps, keeping my voice calm. "You're dismissed."

The guard straightens. "I wasn't?—"

"This is classified." I lower my voice. "She's being moved. The orders just came through."

He hesitates. If I had given this order an hour ago, during peak shift changes, he would have pushed back. But it's late, and fatigue dulls his instincts.

Still, he lingers. "I wasn't told?—"

I let frustration creep into my tone. "Are you questioning the directive?" I step closer, letting my authority press down on him.

He stiffens. "No, sir."

"Then go."

He hesitates only a second longer before giving a sharp nod and retreating down the corridor.

I wait until his footsteps fade before exhaling, then turning to the reinforced door before me. A red sensor pulses at the lock, scanning for clearance. I pull a small device from my pocket, a tool I should never possess, and press it against the panel.

The lock clicks open. Praise Luna.

I step inside.

The cell is small and bare except for a cot as well as a single flickering light overhead. Elara is curled in the corner, knees drawn up. Even in sleep, her body is tense. The dim glow casts sharp shadows across her face, highlighting the bruises along her temple and the dried blood at the edge of her lip.

What have they done to her?

"Elara," I whisper.

She stirs and catches her breath as her eyes flutter open. It takes a second for her to register where she is—to register me.

Then she moves fast, scrambling back against the wall.

"Stay away." Her voice is hoarse. She hasn't had water in a while. I can tell she's beyond exhausted.

I lift my hands, palms open. "I'm getting you out."

She doesn't believe me.

I don't blame her.

"I should let you rot," she mutters, eyes flashing. "You stood there and did nothing."

Guilt claws through me. "I had no choice."

"There's always a choice."

Silence stretches.

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