Page 4 of Heart of the Rebel Mate

And yet, despite everything I know, I find myself wanting her to succeed. Still, hope is a dangerous thing. And Elara Thorne is walking a knife's edge, whether she knows it or not.

The scotch in my glass burns as I drink. Her fire is undeniable and the kind of passion that commands attention. It's also the kind of passion that can start wars. She believes in her vision with every ounce of her being, and that makes her both admirable and dangerous. I roll the glass between my fingers, the cool weight of it doing little to calm the unease twisting in my chest. My wolf stirs, restless, responding to something primal and instinctive.

I pull her file closer, flipping through the pages for the second time tonight. The photo attached to her profile stops me. It's not the polished portrait I expect from someone leading a project of this magnitude. Instead, it's candid—her dark hair slightly wind-tousled, green eyes bright with a sharpness that feels alive even in stillness. There's a strength in her features, but it's not harsh. It's balanced by an elegance that draws the eye, almost too effortlessly. My wolf reacts instantly, a low growl of confused recognition rumbling in my chest, as if her image alone carries a pull I can't ignore.

I push the file away, but her image lingers, burning itself into my thoughts like a brand. The scotch is nearly gone, but the thoughts remain, tangled and unrelenting, and as much as I hate to admit it, part of me can't look away.

The next day, the hum of campus life surrounds me as I follow the paths threading through students and professors. The air is charged, footsteps mingling with bursts of laughter and snatches of conversation. My steps slow when I spot her, exiting a lecture hall, her bag slung over one shoulder and her other hand balancing a stack of papers.

Elara moves quickly, weaving through the lingering students without breaking stride. Her shoulders are straight, her head held high, but there's a faint tension in her movements—like she's running on fumes. She doesn't notice me trailing her toward the café, where she pauses, resting her bag on the back of a chair and brushing her fingers through her hair.

"Missed breakfast?" I ask, stepping into her line of vision. Her head snaps toward me, her brows lifting briefly before settling into a cool, measured expression.

"Mr. Kane," she says, her voice even, though her fingers linger on the edge of the chair. The formal address lands heavier than I expect, and an odd pang ripples through me, tightening my jaw. I don't know why it bothers me—her using my surname, the deliberate distance it creates—but it does.

"Adrian," I correct smoothly, masking the unease with a faint smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. "You should call me Adrian."

She hesitates, her gaze narrowing slightly, the weight of her consideration evident before she finally nods. "Adrian," she says, her tone softer but still guarded. "What brings you here?"

"Let's call it a well-timed coincidence." I tilt my head toward the café counter. "You look like you could use a coffee. Or lunch."

She studies me for a beat, the faint furrow in her brow deepening. Her lips press into a line before she nods, her hand releasing the chair. "Coffee, then."

At the counter, she orders quickly, her fingers tapping lightly against her thigh as she waits. I notice the faint shadows under her eyes and the way her posture softens slightly as she receives her order and wraps her hands around the warm cup.

"You look like you haven't been sleeping well," I remark, leaning back in the chair across from her.

"That's because I haven't," she answers as she takes her first sip.

"What's been keeping you up?" I ask.

Her fingers curl tighter around the cup as she exhales softly. "Lecture prep. And a student needed help with a project last night."

"No food, little sleep." My gaze flicks briefly to her untouched plate. "You really commit to the whole starving genius aesthetic."

A small laugh escapes her, quick and unguarded, and she shakes her head. "I'll manage."

"Let me guess, you've got another lecture after this?" I say, noting the way her bag sags slightly on the chair beside her.

She nods, taking a sip of her coffee. "This afternoon. It's been a long day."

"You look like you need a nap, not another lecture," I comment lightly, and her lips curve upward in the faintest smile.

"It's called commitment," she quips, her voice holding the barest hint of humor.

"To the point of burnout?" I counter, raising a brow.

Her laughter surprises me this time, soft and genuine. "I'm fine," she says, though there's no heat in her tone.

I lean back, watching her as she brushes her hair behind her ear, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. "Should I offer you a ride home after? Or would that be too forward?"

Her gaze snaps to mine, the spark of amusement in her eyes unmistakable. "I think I can manage, thanks."

"Don't worry, I'm not trying to learn your address," I say with a faint smirk. "The Council probably already has it on file."

Her laugh catches me off guard, a light, genuine sound that lingers. "Good to know they're keeping tabs."

"They always are," I reply, leaning forward. "But seriously, take care of yourself. The hub won't build itself if you're passed out in a lecture hall."

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