Page 5 of Heart of the Rebel Mate

Her smile softens, her fingers stilling against the cup as she studies me. "You're full of surprises, Adrian."

"So are you," I reply, my voice quieter now.

She stands, her bag slipping over her shoulder, the sunlight catching strands of her hair as she moves. "Thanks for the coffee," she says, her voice light, glancing back at me with a smile that lingers just a moment too long before she turns away.

I watch as she walks into the crowd, her figure blending seamlessly into the rhythm of campus life. My fingers brush the edge of the table, the faint imprint of her presence clinging to the air between us. The light shifts, the world around me returning to motion, but my gaze stays fixed on the spot where she disappeared.

For a moment, I lean back, exhaling slowly, the tension in my chest refusing to ease. I can still see the curve of her smile, the way her gaze softened when the guard slipped. It shouldn't matter—it's just coffee, just a conversation. But it does. Something about her lingers, sharp and unshakable, pulling at threads I don't yet understand.

CHAPTER 3

ELARA

The soft rustle of papers in my hands feels deafening against the silence of the meeting room. The university had been cryptic in its instructions—there would be potential investors at this meeting, and I was to present and answer their questions. No names, no hints, just a time and place. It was maddeningly vague, but I'd learned long ago to adapt to whatever chaos was thrown my way.

The meeting room is a pristine box of glass and steel, sterile and unyielding. The sun streams in through floor-to-ceiling windows, its warmth at odds with the chill of anxiety settling in my chest. I focus on my notes, willing myself to drown out the faint hum of the building's ventilation system and the echoes of hurried footsteps in the hallway outside. The first investor enters, followed by another, and then a small group, each one a study in controlled power. I straighten my blazer and remind myself to breathe.

This meeting could mean everything or nothing for my project, depending on how well I could sway the room.

The development coordinator, a composed woman named Natalie, had reassured me earlier. "The investors are enthusiastic about your vision," she'd said with a warm smile. "Be yourself. You've already impressed them at the gala."

Still, nerves danced under my skin as I arranged my notes, my fingers smoothing the edges of the papers. One by one, the investors trickled in, their confident steps echoing on the hardwood floors. I recognized a few from the gala, their faces polite but unreadable. Small talk filled the room as they took their seats—an undercurrent of casual conversation masking the quiet tension of what was to come.

The door swings open, and a scent hits me before I even look up—fresh pine and cold winter air, sharp and achingly familiar. My heart lurches, the memory of it slamming into me like a storm. It's a scent I haven't smelled in years, one I never thought I'd encounter again.

My breath catches as Cassian Veyne strides in. His sharp eyes, a piercing silver that once felt like home, sweep across the room before landing on me. He hasn't changed much. His dark hair is neatly styled, just slightly unruly at the edges, and his tailored black suit fits him like it was made to emphasize the lean strength of his frame. His sharp jawline, dusted with the faintest shadow of stubble, remains as striking as ever, and his skin holds the same warm tone I used to trace with my fingertips. He still moves with that quiet authority, every step deliberate, the kind that once made me feel safe and invincible—until it made me feel like I wasn't enough.

"Miss Thorne," he says, his tone polite, formal, a dagger wrapped in velvet.

"Mr. Veyne," I reply, my voice steady even as my chest tightens. My fingers dig into the folder in front of me, grounding myself against the flood of memories crashing over me.

Cassian takes a seat at the far end of the table, his movements unhurried, every inch of him exuding control. The sight of him here, in this room, is enough to make my stomach twist. Once, he was my fated mate—a bond I thought would last forever. We'd had something extraordinary, or at least I believed we did.

I loved him with everything I had, and for a time, I thought he felt the same. Our relationship had been intense, passionate, but also easy in a way that felt natural. I'd trusted him with every part of myself. And then, slowly, he began to pull away. At first, I hadn't noticed. He was busy, I told myself. Distracted. But the distance between us grew until I couldn't ignore it anymore.

When I confronted him, his words gutted me. "You're too human for me, Elara," he'd said, his voice calm, detached, as if he weren't tearing my world apart. "This isn't what I need."

The rejection shattered me. The bond I'd believed was unbreakable had meant nothing to him. He'd walked away without a second thought, leaving me to pick up the pieces alone. I moved to a new city, deleted his number, and built walls so high I thought nothing could get through. And now, here he is, sitting across from me as if none of it ever happened.

The meeting begins, but it's all a blur. I go through the motions, presenting my project with practiced ease, answering questions without faltering. All the while, I can feel Cassian's gaze on me, heavy and unrelenting. I don't look at him—I can't. Not without risking everything I've worked so hard to rebuild.

When the meeting ends, the investors rise, their polite murmurs filling the room as they file out. Cassian doesn't move. He stays seated, his silver eyes fixed on me, and for a moment, the air between us feels unbearably heavy.

Finally, he stands, his movements slow and deliberate as he approaches. "You've done well," he says, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. "You've come a long way."

I meet his gaze, my expression carefully neutral. "Thank you," I reply, my voice sharper than I intend.

His jaw tightens, a flicker of something unspoken crossing his face. "Be careful," he says after a moment. "Not everyone in that room wants to see you succeed."

The warning feels like a challenge, but I refuse to rise to it. Instead, I gather my notes and leave the room, my steps steady and deliberate. I don't look back. Whatever Cassian Veyne is doing here, it doesn't matter. He's the past, and I've spent too long rebuilding my life to let him shake it now.

The room hums with fake-ass laughter and pretentious conversations, and I curse my fucking department head for dumping this bullshit on me, leaving me to beg for money like some desperate salesperson. Clutching a glass of champagne, I scan the room, every polished face making me want to get the hell out of here.

The scent hits me before I see him—clean, sharp, and irritatingly familiar. My gaze snaps to the bar, and there he is. Adrian Kane, leaning casually against the polished wood, his dark suit perfectly tailored, the loosened tie giving him an air of effortless control. He looks so at ease it grates, even in a room full of people trained to pretend they own the place.

Our eyes meet, and for a moment, his brows lift slightly, as if he's genuinely surprised to see me here. Then, just as quickly, his expression shifts into something unreadable, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He pushes off the bar, moving toward me with that deliberate, unhurried grace that's as infuriating as it is magnetic.

"Elara Thorne," he says smoothly, his voice carrying just enough curiosity to make it sting. "I didn't expect to see you here. What brings you to an event like this?"

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