Page 19 of Heart of the Rebel Mate

My breath catches as something else clicks into place. Cassian's rejection. His sudden change.

I glance at Zara. "He told me," I say, voice hoarse. "Cassian. That they forced him to reject me. They told him I was a liability."

"What?" Zara asks, her brows furrowing.

"Cassian," I say, the name bitter on my tongue. "He told me the Council pressured him to reject me. They said I was dangerous because of my ideals."

A chill spreads through my chest. "If this is real... if they've been doing this for decades, then what if they've been watching me long before the project?" The thought slips out before I can stop it.

Zara's fingers tighten around her phone. "It's possible." She exhales. "But we don't know for sure. Could just be a coincidence."

Could it?

I try to push down the growing unease clawing its way up my spine.

Zara continues, swiping through the files. "One name keeps popping up—'Lucas.' No last name, just Lucas. He's mentioned in older records, tied to cases of... interference."

The air leaves my lungs. My pulse stutters.

I barely hear myself when I say, "That's my dad's name."

Zara's head snaps up.

I force out a strained laugh, shaking my head. "It's just a coincidence. Lucas is a common name."

Zara doesn't respond, just watches me carefully.

I swallow, but the doubt is already sinking in, the weight of it pressing on my ribs. My father died when I was thirteen. A car accident. A rainy night. That's what everyone said. That's what my mother believed—until she wasted away, the bond between them broken beyond repair.

But what if it wasn't just an accident?

My hands curl into fists.

Zara shifts, her expression unreadable. "You think it could be him?"

"I don't know," I admit. "I—I never thought he had any connection to something like this."

But the memories resurface, unbidden. My father's firm voice. His strong stance on doing what was right. The way he always seemed wary of people with too much power.

Zara studies me. "It might be nothing. It might be something. But if you want to find out, we dig."

I exhale sharply, nodding once. "Yeah. We dig."

CHAPTER 8

ADRIAN

The library hums with quiet energy—the rustle of pages turning, the occasional creak of a chair, the distant shuffle of footsteps. The scent of aged parchment and ink lingers, grounding and familiar, but none of it holds my attention.

I shouldn't be here.

My fingers tighten around the spine of an old record, but I haven't turned a page in minutes. The words blur, ink bleeding into ink, meaningless. I shift in my chair, rolling my shoulders, trying to shake the restless energy knotting beneath my skin.

This isn't where I work. I don't need public archives when I have access to the Council's private records. But I came anyway.

For research, I tell myself.

But my gaze keeps drifting.

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