His new stepsister His biggest threat (Claire and Elijah) novel Chapter 1

**Betrayal Births by Joseph King**

**Chapter 1**

**Claire’s POV**

What is the absolute worst thing that could happen to someone in their life?

Is it the embarrassment of being born with freckles and braces? Sure, that’s a rite of passage for many, but it’s hardly the end of the world.

Or perhaps being bullied for years throughout school, feeling like an outsider in a place meant for belonging? That’s a different kind of misery, one that lingers long after the school bell rings.

But what could be worse than all of that?

How about waking up one fateful Monday morning to find your mother bursting into your room, her voice cutting through the air like a knife, declaring, “Pack your bags, Claire. We’re leaving.”

Leaving?

I sat at my cluttered desk, history notes scattered around me, the remnants of a frantic homework session. My mind struggled to process her words.

“I’m sorry, what?” I managed to stammer, disbelief flooding my senses.

Her expression remained resolute, devoid of any hint of tenderness. “We’re moving tonight. The council has made its decision. Since your father is gone, the law requires me to remarry. Fortunately, the Alpha of Silvercrest has stepped forward.”

“Stepped forward?” The phrase felt like a cruel joke, as if I were watching some twisted auction where my mother was the prize.

A harsh laugh escaped my lips, jagged and broken. “You can’t be serious.”

Her jaw clenched, a sign of her unwavering determination. “I am. And you will respect this decision.”

A fire ignited within my chest, a mix of anger and betrayal. “Dad’s barely been gone a year! And now you’re just… throwing yourself at some Alpha? Like you’re trying to replace him?”

Her eyes blazed, not with anger, but with something colder—indifference. That stung more than anything.

“There are things you don’t understand, Claire. Your father left behind debts—more than I can handle alone. If I don’t do this, we risk losing everything. Our home, our standing in this pack. Do you want that?”

Her words struck me like a physical blow. My dad had been many things, but reckless with money? That was a revelation I never anticipated.

Tears threatened to spill, but I held them back, unwilling to tarnish the cherished memories I had of him. “So what? He gets to die, and we’re the ones who pay the price for it? This isn’t fair.”

“It’s survival,” she insisted, her tone softening slightly. “It’s the only way forward.”

I pushed my chair back with such force that it nearly toppled over. “No. This is the coward’s way out.”

Before she could respond, I dashed into the bathroom, locking the door behind me as if it could shield me from the reality crashing down around me.

Staring into the mirror, I barely recognized the reflection staring back. My freckled face was pale, eyes red-rimmed from the battle against tears. My glasses slid down my nose, and my braces gleamed like a neon sign announcing my status as a social outcast.

And beneath it all? There was a profound sense of weakness, a constant reminder of my limitations.

I pressed a hand against my chest, where an all-too-familiar ache pulsed. My heart continued to beat, a futile reminder that it mattered.

Arrhythmogenic Right Ventricular Dysplasia (ARVD).

This condition had haunted me since childhood, rendering my heart’s rhythm unstable, plunging me into sudden fainting spells without warning. While other kids were training to run laps and shift into their wolves, I was confined to hospital beds, listening to doctors shake their heads in pity. I still hadn’t shifted. My body was frail, a constant reminder that I would always lag behind everyone else.

Sometimes, I wondered if fate took pleasure in my suffering. I recalled the time I begged my parents to let me take a simple job at a café—nothing too demanding, just wiping tables and carrying trays. I lasted a mere two days before collapsing behind the counter, waking up in a hospital bed, tubes snaking from my arms like some tragic science experiment. My mother had cried, and my father had looked as though someone had ripped a hole through his heart. They spent what little money we had left on tests, only to hear the same disheartening lecture: she can’t handle anything strenuous; don’t push her.

Since that day, I had been swaddled in bubble wrap, treated as if I were made of glass. Spoiler alert: glass cracks. And me? I just kept proving them right.

All I held onto was the hope of getting into college, studying computer engineering, and securing a job that wouldn’t require me to run, lift, or fight. Something safe, where my intellect mattered more than my frail body. It was my only dream, the sole flicker of light in an otherwise dark existence that made me feel like maybe… just maybe… I wasn’t entirely useless.

I whispered to the empty bathroom, “If I weren’t so useless, maybe Mom wouldn’t have to do this.”

But I was useless. The guilt weighed on me, suffocating me more than the news itself.

With a heavy heart, I left the bathroom, forced myself into my school uniform, and packed my bag with trembling hands. Ready or not, I had to face school that very day.

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