His new stepsister His biggest threat (Claire and Elijah) novel Chapter 120

**TITLE: Betrayal Births by Joseph King**

**Chapter 120**

**Claire’s POV**

As dawn broke, the household came alive with the familiar sounds of maids bustling about, the clatter of plates, and the rich aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the air, a comforting prelude to the day ahead.

I found myself standing at the kitchen counter, my mind adrift as I absentmindedly stirred sugar into my steaming cup. Breakfast was the last thing on my mind; all I could think about was him—Elijah. The memories of last night flooded my thoughts, refusing to let go, wrapping around me like a shroud.

My heart felt constricted, a tight knot of anxiety and longing, while my wolf paced restlessly beneath my skin, a soft whine escaping its depths, yearning for Elijah’s presence. I made a decision then, a small act of defiance against the swirling chaos in my mind: I would take him breakfast. Perhaps it was foolish—perhaps he wouldn’t even want it—but I needed to see him, to feel that connection, even if it was merely a few feet apart.

By the time I had assembled a tray filled with eggs, toast, and the fruit he favored, I could barely contain my excitement. My lip trembled as I bit down on it to steady myself. The hallway outside his room stretched out before me like a long, daunting path, silent except for the distant sounds of servants and guards going about their duties.

As my hand hovered over the doorknob, uncertainty gripped me, and I froze, my heart racing. Just then, the door swung open, and there he stood—Elijah, leaning casually against the frame, his dark eyes sharp and penetrating, his chest rising and falling in a slow, almost predatory rhythm.

“I knew you were coming,” he said, his voice a low murmur that sent a shiver down my spine. In that moment, the world around us faded away, leaving only the two of us in a cocoon of unspoken understanding.

“What?” I managed to whisper, utterly bewildered. He didn’t need to elaborate; the warmth radiating from him, the intensity of his gaze spoke volumes. My chest tightened, a nervous thrill coursing through me, igniting every nerve ending.

For the first time in days, Elijah’s expression softened, and I caught a fleeting glimpse of something akin to gratitude—or was it relief?—flitting across his features. “I… brought you breakfast,” I said, attempting to keep my tone light, but even I could hear the breathlessness lacing my words.

He swallowed hard, blinking as if the very act required monumental effort. “You didn’t have to,” he replied, but I could hear the tremor in his voice, the way it quivered with unspoken emotion, revealing that my small gesture was worth more than he would ever openly admit.

I stepped closer, balancing the tray carefully in my hands, when suddenly a guard brushed by too closely. In an instant, Elijah reacted, pulling me behind him as if to shield me from an unseen threat. His body pressed against mine, a protective barrier, his eyes blazing with a fierce intensity that could have cut through steel.

“I’m sorry,” the guard stammered, hands raised in surrender, and Elijah finally released me, though not without casting a glare that could have frozen time itself.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I whispered once my heartbeat began to slow, my cheeks flushed with a mix of embarrassment and gratitude as I glanced up at him. “It’s okay. Really.”

He didn’t respond, merely exhaling slowly, and I felt a twist in my stomach as I realized this was more than just a guard bumping into me. His protective instincts were flaring, the sharpness of his aura thickening in the air around us—it was Moon Sickness.

The realization hit me like a tidal wave. Heightened senses, overwhelming emotional surges, the desperate craving for touch—it all made sense now. My stomach plummeted at the thought.

I set the tray down on his desk, and he watched me silently, almost hungrily, as if I were the only anchor in a tumultuous sea.

He sat, and I followed suit, maintaining just enough space between us, though my wolf was insistent that I draw nearer. When he reached for his fork, I noticed the subtle tremor in his hand, and my heart raced. I didn’t look away as his hand brushed against my thigh, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt through me. I stiffened, glancing at him, and he jerked back as if he’d been scalded. “I… I’m sorry,” he stammered, his voice low and almost reverent.

“No… it’s fine,” I murmured, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t fine at all. The reality of touch starvation was heavy, and it pained me to witness his struggle—so desperate for contact yet terrified to reach out. My hand hovered over his for a brief moment, yearning to offer him stability, to provide some solid ground, but I hesitated. In that moment, there was little more I could do.

After we finished breakfast, I gently broached the subject of visiting the healer. “I think… maybe she can help you,” I suggested softly, striving for a tone that was both gentle and persuasive, yet firm enough to convey my concern. He initially shook his head, resisting the idea, but I could see the flicker of hesitation in his eyes, the internal conflict waging war within him. Finally, he relented, allowing me to guide him.

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