Page 64 of Heart of the Rebel Mate

Almost.

But then I hear her voice in my head.

Not real. Just memory.

A sharp remark. A tired sigh. The way she says my name when she's frustrated, when she doesn't trust me but still needs me.

And then I seehim.

Not here, not in the mountains. But in my mind.

Cassian, standing too close to her. Speaking in low tones. Watching her like he knows something I don't.

I push harder, picking up speed. The incline burns in my legs, but I welcome it. Anything to keep my mind from circling back to the same damn thing.

It's not just that Cassian is around. It'showhe's around. Lingering. Pressing in. I saw them the other night, on the balcony outside the safe house. Their voices were low, heated. I wasn't close enough to hear what was said—wolfsbane in the walls scrambled my abilities—but I didn't need to hear the words. I saw the way she held her ground, the way he leaned in.

He wants something from her.

Maybe the summit. Maybe more.

And she hasn't told him to leave.

I reach a break in the trees, a ledge overlooking the valley below. The sky is turning gold, the sun sinking behind the distant peaks. I slow, catching my breath, my pulse steadying.

The smart thing would be to ignore it. To stay out of it.

But I've never been smart when it comes to her. What is this passion I feel? Why does it burn so deeply within me, threatening to consume my body and soul?

Before I can get an answer to that, my senses pick up something and I become alert. The air has changed.

It's subtle at first, just a shift in the wind, but I feel it in my bones. The forest is too still. No rustling leaves, no scurrying undergrowth, no distant chirps or animal calls. Just silence.

My body tenses.

Then, a sharp cry cuts through the quiet.

I snap my head up just in time to see a hawk dive from the sky. It's fast—just a streak of shadow against the blinding-white clouds. My eyes track it instinctively as it zeroes in on a small nest perched in the crook of a tree, high above the forest floor.

The mother bird isn't there. She must have left to find food.

A heartbeat later, the hawk strikes.

A flurry of motion. Twigs snapping. A tiny, helpless thing yanked into the sky, its fragile body dangling from the predator's talons.

I move before I think.

Muscle, instinct, reaction—I launch myself up, pushing off a rock to gain height, fingers grasping at air. The hawk is already rising, its wings beating hard, carrying its stolen prize farther and farther away.

Not fast enough.

I land, crouched, breath sharp. My mind whirs, my pulse hammering. My body wants to shift, to hunt, but it wouldn't do any good. The hawk isn't prey I can chase down on foot.

I need a different tactic.

My hand finds a smooth stone near my boot. I weigh it for a second before whipping my arm back and hurling it at the bird. It misses, sailing uselessly into the trees.

I grit my teeth, already reaching for another.

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