Page 43 of Heart of the Rebel Mate

"I won't be your pawn, Cassian."

His face is unreadable, but something shifts in his stance. A quiet understanding. A reluctant acceptance.

I see the disappointment flicker across his face, but he nods once, conceding—for now.

But we both know this isn't the last time we'll have this conversation.

News travels fast. Faster than I ever thought possible.

By the time I step back into the safe house, the air is thick with the scent of damp wood and the faint traces of burnt-out candles. A storm passed earlier, and the moisture clings to everything—the cracked floorboards, the tattered curtains swaying near the drafty window, the old leather armchair where Adrian now sits, his fingers drumming softly against the armrest.

He doesn't look up right away.

The dim glow of the streetlights outside spills through the grime-coated glass. His sharp features are half-obscured by the flickering candle on the table beside him, but I don't need to see his expression to know what's coming. The tension rolls off him in waves, and it is thick enough to drown in.

I take a deep breath, shaking the rain from my sleeves as I shut the door behind me.

"I know what you're about to say."

Adrian finally turns, his eyes dark and unreadable. "They're talking about you."

I set my coat down, crossing the creaky wooden floor. The boards groan beneath my weight, a reminder that this place—our so-called safe house—is barely standing. It used to be an old tailor's shop, abandoned before the rebellion took it over. The walls are still lined with dusty shelves, scraps of fabric forgotten in the corners.

I stop a few feet from him. "Who?"

"Everyone." He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, studying me like he's waiting for a reaction, some sign that I understand just how deep we're in now. "Your arrest—it wasn't just another political move. It was a message."

I swallow hard.

The Council tried to make an example of me. Tried to crush the rebellion by dragging me into the spotlight and branding me a traitor. But instead, they've done the opposite. The Council is likely livid at my escape, but they cannot put out an APB on me just yet, because that would mean informing the public of the situation. If that happens, they lose even more credibility and risk turning me into some sort of heroic figure.

People are paying attention now.

The movement, once whispered in darkened alleys and secret meetings, is now being spoken about openly. Prominent figures—celebrities, activists, academics—are condemning my arrest, demanding change. My name is on their lips, my face on their screens.

And I don't know if that terrifies me or thrills me.

Adrian stands. His gaze is sharp, and he assesses me carefully. "ElaraVoss," he says quietly. "Your family name is surfacing in places it shouldn't."

A chill runs down my spine.

"What do you mean?"

He hesitates. Just for a second. But I catch it.

"Your name has been in opposition circles before," he admits. "And not just because of you."

I blink. "You're saying my family?—"

"I don't know," he says. "But people are asking questions."

The candle on the table flickers, the wax pooling at its base. A drop slides down, slow and deliberate, as if mirroring the sinking stone in my chest.

My mother is dead.

My father... I don't know who he was. Not really. He was a ghost, a shadow that never quite solidified into something real. I've spent my life trying to carve my own place in this world, separate from whatever legacy came before me.

But now, that legacy is catching up.

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