Page 44 of Heart of the Rebel Mate

I glance at the window, watching the city beyond. The streets are quiet at this hour, but I can feel the gaze of unseen eyes, the whispers of the public curling through the dark like smoke, finding me even in my obscurity.

I shudder and rub my palms together.

The couch beneath me sags under my weight, the fabric rough against my fingertips as I trace an absent pattern along the frayed edges. It smells like old dust and damp wood, a scent that has become all too familiar. Somewhere in the safe house, water drips from a leaky pipe, the rhythmic plink-plink filling the silence between us. A candle flickers on the rickety table beside me. I am grateful for the warmth.

I stare at my hands. They're steady. Too steady. But inside, I feel anything but.

"I didn't ask for this," I murmur, the words barely loud enough to break the quiet.

Across from me, Adrian sits in a battered chair, elbows braced against his knees. The dim light catches in his eyes, making them inscrutable. He watches me carefully, the way someone might observe a glass on the edge of a table, waiting to see if it will fall.

"I know," he says.

I drag in a slow breath, feeling the weight of everything pressing against my ribs. "I just wanted to build something real. Something that mattered. I never wanted to be..." I trail off, staring at the candle's flame.

A symbol. A leader. A name that carries more meaning than I ever intended.

Adrian leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. "You don't have to be what they expect you to be."

A bitter laugh slips from my lips before I can stop it. It sounds hollow in the small space. "Don't I?"

Everywhere I turn, people are looking to me for answers. For leadership. For hope.

I can feel it in the way they watch me when I walk into a room, the way conversations hush just long enough for them to take in my presence before continuing. I see it in the quiet nods, the whispered prayers, the expectant eyes of those who believe I am something more than just a girl who survived.

I am not built for this.

Adrian doesn't speak for a long moment. The candle flickers, sending a ripple of light across his face. Then, quietly, he says, "You're stronger than you think."

I shake my head, pressing my fingers against my temples. "No. I'm just good at pretending."

His hand brushes mine, and I jolt.

The contact is fleeting, accidental. But the effect is immediate. My breath catches, a sharp inhale I can't suppress. Heat pools under my skin, an unwelcome flush creeping up my neck.

Adrian doesn't react at first. He keeps speaking, his voice steady, discussing plans, tactics, the rebellion—things that should matter more than the way my body is suddenly at war with itself.

But I feel him watching. Assessing.

The next time his fingers touch mine, it's deliberate. A slow drag. Barely there.

I clench my thighs, a pulse of warmth sparking deep. I hate that he does this to me, that a simple touch can unravel something tight in my chest and send it tumbling lower, twisting into need.

"Elara." His voice is a weapon, all smooth command and quiet force.

I don't look at him. If I do, I'll be lost.

Instead, I swallow hard and force my hands into fists.

"You're doing that on purpose," I mutter.

A ghost of a smile tugs at his lips. "Am I?"

Damn him.

The silence stretches between us, heavy and full of things neither of us can say out loud. The rebellion. The weight of my past. The uncertainty of the future. It all presses in on me, thick as smoke, curling around my thoughts until I feel like I might choke on it.

I don't know how long I sit there, lost in the labyrinth of my own mind. The candle's wax drips in slow intervals, a small, steady reminder that time hasn't stopped even if it feels like it has. The world is still turning. The fight is still waiting.

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