Page 42 of Heart of the Rebel Mate

"Elara," he says, voice smooth but weighted. "You can't keep running from this."

I don't move.

I'm exhausted, my body aching from too many close calls, my mind still reeling from what Adrian and I have done. The Council will be hunting us. There is no going back. And yet, standing here, faced with Cassian and the sheer force of his conviction, I feel an entirely different kind of pressure closing in.

His voice is calm and measured– presumably from a lot of practice– but there's an urgency in it that wasn't there before. It makes my pulse quicken. My stomach twists at the thought of what is to come.

"I'm not running," I say evenly. "I just refuse to trade one master for another."

His jaw tightens, but he doesn't let the irritation show. Instead, he gestures toward the room around us.

Maps of the city are scattered across the walls, marked with red ink where the rebellion has made its presence known. Strategic points of attack. Safe houses. Supply routes. Symbols I don't recognize, etched in the margins—codes, maybe, or messages meant only for those who already belong to this cause. For the initiated.

This isn't just a resistance.

It's a war being planned in the shadows.

"You still think this is about control?" he asks. "This is about survival."

I shake my head. "No. My project was about survival. About giving people like us a place in this world. You? You're tearing it apart!"

His gaze darkens. "And what would you have me do? Sit back while they slaughter us? While they rip apart our lives one by one?"

I don't answer.

Because part of me understands.

Part of me wants to be angry, to fight, to make the Council pay for what they've done. But I've seen what blind hatred does to people. I've seen what it does to him.

Cassian exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. His fingers thread through the dark strands like he's trying to pull himself together. His movements are tense and controlled, but I can see the crack in his armor. The exhaustion behind his eyes is unmistakable. One cannot simply run an operation like this and not expect to pay the price mentally and physically, werewolf or not.

He steps closer, lowering his voice. "Listen to me," he says. "You haven't seen the full picture yet. Your influence—your name—carries more weight than you realize. You could be the face of this movement."

The words hit like a blow to the chest.

I stiffen. "And you think that's a good thing?"

His expression flickers, and I notice his hesitation. His conviction might be strong, but so is his doubt. He's just very good at keeping it at bay.

Cassian has always played the part of the fearless leader, the one who never wavers. But I know him. And beneath all of that righteous fury is something else entirely. Guilt, perhaps.

I press forward.

"You don't just want me because of my influence. You want me because it makes it easier for you to sleep at night."

He flinches, but just barely.

The room is too quiet now. The murmurs of the rebels have faded, and I know they're listening. Waiting for his response.

"You think if I stand next to you, if I validate what you're doing, it'll make it all worth it. That it'll erase the things you've done." My voice drops, steady but sharp. "But it won't."

His mouth tightens.

For a long moment, neither of us speaks.

Then he exhales, rubbing his jaw. "Maybe you're right," he admits. "Maybe none of it will ever be enough. But it doesn't change the fact that we need you."

I let the silence stretch before answering.

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