Page 20 of Heart of the Rebel Mate

And then, as if the universe has finally decided to stop taunting me?—

She walks in.

Elara.

She moves through the entrance with the same quiet confidence she carries everywhere, like she belongs, like nothing can shake her. A bag slung over her shoulder, fingers idly toying with the strap, her expression focused. Her hair is tied back, but loose strands fall against her cheek, and she tucks one behind her ear without thinking.

Heat coils low in my stomach, unwelcome, familiar.

I force my gaze back to my book, jaw clenching, willing myself to focus.

But I still hear her.

She flips page after page, too fast to absorb the words, then exhales sharply, shifting in her chair. I look up and see a strand of hair fall loose, slipping against her cheek. She pushes it back, absentminded, before reaching for another book from the stack beside her.

The title catches my eye first.

Theories on Fated Bonds: Severance, Suppression, and Anomalies.

My breath locks in my throat.

Why the hell is she reading about severing bonds?

She lets out a quiet sigh, the sound barely audible but enough to make me push back from my chair. Before I realize what I'm doing, I'm crossing the room, the soft tread of my boots muffled by the thick carpet.

"Elara," I greet, my voice low enough not to disturb the few other patrons scattered throughout the space.

She stiffens at the sound of her name, her pen freezing mid-tap. Slowly, she turns, her green eyes narrowing as they meet mine.

"Adrian," she says, her tone flat, carefully neutral.

"Need help?" I nod toward the pile of records in front of her.

Her gaze flicks to the mess of documents, then back to me. "I'm fine."

I raise an eyebrow, crossing my arms over my chest. "You don't look fine."

Her jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think she's going to snap at me. But then she leans back in her chair, exhaling slowly. "It's the historical zoning records," she admits grudgingly. "They're a mess. Half of them are mislabeled, and the rest are barely legible."

I glance at the stack, noting the faded ink and brittle edges of the papers. "Mind if I take a look?"

She hesitates, her fingers tightening around the pen. But eventually, she pushes one of the folders toward me. "Knock yourself out."

I pull out the chair across from her and sit, the worn leather creaking softly under my weight. As I scan the contents of the folder, I can feel her watching me, her gaze sharp and assessing.

The silence between us is heavy but not uncomfortable. I skim through the records, piecing together the fragmented information with a practiced eye. Years of analyzing intelligence reports for the Council have made me good at spotting patterns, at connecting dots most people miss.

"These documents are cross-referenced," I say after a moment, tapping one of the pages. "See here? This zoning regulation ties back to the municipal land grants from the same era. You'll need both sets to get a full picture."

Elara leans forward, her brow furrowing as she studies the page. "How did I miss that?" she mutters, more to herself than to me.

"You were too busy being frustrated," I say lightly.

She gives me a look, one eyebrow arching in warning. "Careful, Kane."

I chuckle softly, handing the folder back to her. "Relax, Thorne. I'm just here to help."

Her expression softens slightly, and for a moment, the tension between us eases. She glances at the folder, then back at me, her gaze lingering longer than it should.

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