His new stepsister His biggest threat (Claire and Elijah) novel Chapter 122

**Betrayal Births by Joseph King**
**Chapter 122**

**Claire’s POV**

At times, I wonder if my insatiable curiosity will ultimately lead to my downfall.

The discovery of the sketch was unexpected, a product of my return to the den. I found myself drawn back, compelled by both habit and an unshakeable thought: Naomi had orchestrated Theo’s path into darkness.

At first glance, the paper felt wrong, as if it had been tainted. Someone had gone over the lines with a heavier hand, darkening the features in such a way that the face became almost unreadable. The stark contrast was unsettling, a jolt to my senses.

It was unmistakably Theo’s subject—the rough, shadowy visage of the accused warrior—but the nuance had vanished, replaced by a crude, accusatory emphasis. Beneath the thickened strokes, I could almost see the faint trace of Theo’s own tentative hand, struggling to convey the truth.

I took a seat, the chair scraping against the floor with a dull protest. My hands trembled, and for a fleeting moment, I feared I might let the page slip from my grasp. Theo was present, his eyes bleary and hollow, a testament to countless sleepless nights, yet these traced lines were not his. They lacked the uncertainty that characterized his original work.

Drawing the sketch closer, I let my fingers glide over the darker lines, my wolf stirring within me, baring her teeth at the thought that someone was attempting to ensnare one of our own in a web of deceit.

Glancing at Theo, I found him staring blankly at the wall, lost in his thoughts. “Theo,” I said, my voice steady yet low, as if afraid to disturb the fragile atmosphere. “You need to see this. Where did you leave this sketch today?”

He blinked, as if emerging from a dream, a high-pitched sound escaping his lips as he registered the alterations on the page. His eyes widened, locking onto the forgery with a dawning horror.

“I… I did it,” he stammered, his voice ragged and strained. “That’s my memory, but someone made it heavy. They traced—traced the features after I finished. I swear, I never intended for this to happen—” His voice faltered abruptly, color draining from his face as the weight of realization hit him.

Leaning closer, I kept my voice sharp yet calm, a whisper meant to cut through the tension. “Who was here, Theo? Think carefully. Did anyone touch your things after you finished this first draft?”

He shook his head vehemently, panic rising in his voice. “No one! No one was here but the healers… and then I went to sleep. It was on the table, just as I left it. Lighter. I swear, it was lighter.” His eyes darted around the room, filled with a terror that spoke volumes. “Someone came back. Someone used it.”

“It’s alright,” I murmured, covering his trembling hand with mine, though my gaze swept the quiet room, taking note of the uneasy shifts among the other wolves. “We believe you. But we need to show this to the others.”

We took the traced sketch to the elders, along with the warrior who had been wrongly accused in Theo’s earlier memory. He was a familiar figure—a tall, steadfast man with kind eyes that had seen much. As he examined the doctored drawing, his initial expression of weary acceptance morphed into one of shock.

“This is not his work,” he declared, his voice ringing with a fervent indignation that commanded the attention of everyone present. “When I first saw the original version, it was vague, like a ghost. This… this is a frame.”

He swore to us, with his heart laid bare, that he had nothing to do with this deception. “I have dedicated my life to this Pack,” he asserted, spreading his hands in a gesture of sincerity. “I have no reason to hide, nor would I ever pay a young man to lie for me. If I am accused, I will face it head-on, but I will not be framed.” I observed him standing there, resolute and patient, the same man who had once lectured recruits and shared drinks with the council, utterly confident in his own honor.

Yet, certainty does not equate to proof. I stepped forward, holding up the sketch for all to see. “Theo confirmed that the heavier lines are not his. They were added after he left. This paper on the table has become a weapon in someone’s hands.”

“A deliberate act,” one of the elders agreed grimly, her gaze sweeping the room with a sense of foreboding. “The forger wanted us to see the accusation, not the truth behind the memory.”

“Someone had the patience for forgery and the intent to divert suspicion from a very specific individual,” I insisted, my voice ringing with a conviction I hadn’t felt since this entire ordeal began.

The wolves in the room shifted, a palpable unease settling over them. Elijah’s shadow loomed large over my shoulder, a phantom presence of authority and concern that I could not shake.

Later, as the day wore on and the healers granted me the freedom to move about, I made my way to the library. I settled beneath a lamp, devouring every piece of information I could find about forgeries.

The librarian shuffled by, tapping his cane against the floor, inquiring about dinner times and the elders’ schedules.

“Miss, are you searching for something specific, or simply passing the hours?” he asked, his voice a dry rasp that echoed in the quiet space.

“I’m looking for how a lie can be inscribed on a page,” I replied, not bothering to look up from my reading. “How a man’s hand might be compelled by fear, how a pencil could betray or deceive.”

He paused, then let out a resigned sigh. “That is often found in the margins, my dear. The most significant lies are usually hidden behind the smallest details.”

I went through the motions of conversing with him, but my thoughts kept drifting back to the traced lines. It was in the margins of a bookkeeping ledger that I stumbled upon a small note about tampering—an account of someone in a neighboring county who had altered receipts to conceal debts.

She did not dismiss my request. Instead, she provided me with an old herbal blend for the mind—simple, bitter, not a cure, but a balm. “Take this,” she instructed, handing me a heavy clay pot.

“But I must warn you, often, confronting the cause is the only true remedy for such deep wounds.”

She paused, her gaze drifting toward the den where Theo rested. “The bond can become a weakness when frayed. However, when threatened by an external poison, it can also become a source of strength. Use yours wisely.”

It didn’t take a scholar to recognize she was referring to Elijah. She refrained from uttering the words “moon sickness” aloud; she didn’t need to.

I left, clutching the pot like an archer with extra arrows.

Elijah stood in the doorway when I returned, his hands clenched at his sides, jaw tight with tension.

“You went to the healers?” he asked, his tone flat and unyielding.

“I did. They provided this for Theo.” When I lifted the pot toward him, he did not take it, merely scrutinizing me as if weighing the significance of what I had brought.

“If the source is internal,” he said slowly, “you don’t draw them out by shouting. You pry, quietly. You observe them when they believe they are alone.”

“I understand,” I replied. “But Theo is in pain. The healer suggested confronting the cause—the moment he was coerced.”

“Do you know the cause?” he pressed, his gaze piercing through me.

I yearned to reveal that the person I suspected possessed both means and opportunity, that Naomi’s recent actions did not align with a simple pay-for-hire scheme, but the words caught in my throat. Mentioning her name now felt akin to igniting a civil war.

Instead, I nodded. “Quietly,” I promised. “Carefully, in the only way I can.” The only way that might save him without causing further harm.