Page 58 of Heart of the Rebel Mate

But it's not just that. It's everything. It's the fact that she's not mine—not really, not in the way that matters. It's the fact that Cassian still sees himself as a contender, that she hasn't drawn a clear enough line between them.

It's the fact that, deep down, I know I'm just as afraid as he is.

Afraid of losing her. Afraid that this—whatever we are—might not be enough to keep her.

Elara shakes her head. "I don't have time for this, Adrian. I thought you trusted me."

"I do," I say, softer now. "But you expect me to pretend I didn't see what I saw? That it didn't make me question everything?"

Her jaw tightens. "What, pray tell, are you questioning?"

I drag my feet. Metaphorically. The answer is dangerous.

But I can't lie to her.

"Us."

The word lands between us like a sharp crack in the foundation of something we've spent months building.

Elara blinks, her lips parting slightly before she schools her expression. "You think I'd betray you like that?"

"No," I say. "But I think there's a part of you that hasn't fully let go of him."

Silence.

Her throat moves as she swallows, and for a moment, she doesn't answer. That hesitation is enough. It's enough to twist the knife deeper.

"You don't know what you're talking about," she finally says, voice tight.

I nod once. "Maybe I don't."

I step past her, opening the door. She doesn't move.

"You think I haven't been fighting for this?" she asks, and there's something raw in her voice now. "For us?"

I keep my gaze on the doorway. "I don't know what you've been fighting for, Elara. But it sure as hell doesn't feel like it's me."

That's the last thing I say before I leave.

Before I put space between us.

Before I can let myself say something I'll regret.

But the rift is already there, widening with every step I take.

And for the first time, I wonder if it's one we'll ever be able to fix.

CHAPTER 17

ELARA

The safe house feels different today. The air is still thick with unspoken tension, but for the first time in days, it doesn't feel like it's suffocating me. The weight pressing against my ribs has lightened, just enough to let me breathe without feeling like I might crack open at the seams.

Maybe it's because I have something to focus on.

I run my fingers along the edge of the wooden table, the surface rough with age, splintered in places from years of use. It's been repurposed a dozen times over—war room, dining table, a place to lay out maps and trace the fault lines of our world. Today, it's where I start building something that can't be ignored.

A summit. Not just another desperate attempt at exposing the Council, not just another small rebellion drowned out by the next manufactured crisis. This has to be bigger. It has to be undeniable.

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