Page 77 of Heart of the Rebel Mate

"If you're so certain she's trustworthy, then you're ignoring the obvious," he says, his voice low and edged. "The Council doesn't let operatives defect without consequences. Either she's more valuable to them alive, or we're all idiots for letting her sit at this table."

The words sting more than I want to admit. Not just because he's questioning my judgment—but because I can't tell if it's Isla he doesn't trust, or my ability to see clearly.

"She's here because we need her," I say, keeping my tone level. "You don't have to like it, but you damn well have to work with it."

Adrian holds my gaze for a long second, something unreadable in his expression. Finally, he looks away, exhaling hard. The discussion moves on, but the rift lingers.

Later that evening, the camp is quieter, but my mind isn't.

I step outside the cavernous war room, letting the cool air scrape against my skin. The pathways through the caves are dimly lit, flickering lanterns casting uneven pools of light along the walls. Most of the rebellion has settled into their nightly routines—some maintaining the perimeter, others finding rare moments of rest.

I walk without thinking, following the twisting rock corridors until I catch sight of the command tent, its entrance half-drawn open. And inside?—

Adrian.

And Isla.

They stand close, not touching, but something about the way Isla leans in, the way Adrian's expression softens, makes my breath catch.

I should turn away. Walk past like I don't see it, like it doesn't bother me. But I don't. I stand there, the flickering lantern light carving them into sharp silhouettes against the canvas walls.

Isla says something I can't hear, her mouth quivering into a small smile. And then Adrian smirks.

It's nothing. A brief, fleeting expression. But it lodges in my chest like a splinter.

I've seen him fight, seen him break bones with precision, seen him defy orders with a sharp-edged defiance. But I've rarely seen him like this—at ease, lips quirked in something that isn't a sneer or a snarl.

And not with me.

The realization burns hot and fast, like a match struck too close to my skin.

I don't linger. I force myself to move, to turn down the next corridor before I have to watch any longer.

I step into my quarters in the safe house, the heavy fabric of the curtain falling shut behind me. The silence should be a comfort, but it isn't. It feels hollow, pressing in at the edges of my thoughts.

I sink onto the cot, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. My pulse is still uneven, my breathing tight. The image of Adrian and Isla lingers, burned into my mind like an afterimage from a bright light. It shouldn't matter. I should be above this.

But I'm not.

I rub my hands together, pressing my palms into my skin as if I can smooth out the tension.

I hate that it got to me. Hate the way my chest tightens at the sight of them. Hate that Isla can make Adrian smirk when all I seem to do lately is push him further away.

I want to believe it means nothing. That it's just two people talking, sharing space, nothing more. But I saw the way Isla leaned in. The way Adrian let his guard down, if only for a moment.

And what if it's not nothing?

The thought lodges itself in my throat like a stone.

I shake my head, forcing myself to focus. There's too much at stake to let myself spiral over something so small. And yet, I reach for my comms device before I can stop myself, my fingers hovering over the secure channel Zara and I use.

Zara would know what to say. She always does.

I could tell her everything. The tension with Adrian, my own growing uncertainty, the way I feel like I'm losing my footing at the worst possible time. She'd listen. She'd remind me who I am, that I'm strong enough to handle this.

But she has enough on her plate.

She's leading an entire faction of the rebellion, balancing politics and survival with the kind of grace I can only hope to emulate.

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