His new stepsister His biggest threat (Claire and Elijah) novel Chapter 123

**TITLE: Betrayal Births by Joseph King**

**Chapter 123**

**Claire’s POV**

I started my inquiry with whispers, so soft that they barely registered as true questions.

A light-hearted greeting here, an offhand remark there—each seemingly innocuous, yet all part of a larger strategy. In a community like ours, where the stakes were high and trust was a fragile commodity, people were wary of overt actions; they underestimated the power of gentleness.

I leaned into that understanding. I became a shadow that glided through the palace, a girl adorned with warm smiles and trivial requests, someone who could wander into kitchens and stables without raising a single brow.

But beneath that facade, I was a keen observer, absorbing everything around me.

I watched the cooks as they deftly chopped herbs, their hands moving with practiced ease, and listened intently to the idle chatter that spilled forth when they thought I wasn’t paying attention. I noted which stable hands bickered every morning like clockwork and which ones lingered long after their shifts, their eyes alert as if guarding secrets. I memorized the warrior’s routine—when he crossed the inner courtyard, the precise moment his patrol concluded, and the specific door he checked twice, as if something within gnawed at his conscience.

It was in these little details, these seemingly insignificant observations, that the truth lay hidden.

A glove left behind near the training post. A smudge of ash on the heel of his palm. The habitual patting of his breast pocket before he raised his gaze to greet someone. A man’s essence often reveals itself in the habits he doesn’t consciously recognize.

Theo was making progress, albeit slowly. The herbs, the quiet watchfulness, the gentle nudges—they were all contributing to his recovery, but his memories emerged in sporadic bursts. Some days, he could recount an entire moment with chilling clarity; on others, he spoke as if trying to grasp a dream that slipped away upon waking.

“It was the smell first,” he confided one night, when the world outside was hushed and everyone else had succumbed to sleep. His fingers twisted anxiously at the hem of his blanket. “Something coppery. Sweet. And tobacco. The cheap, rough kind. It leaves a scratch in your nose.”

“And the man?” I prompted softly, my heart racing with anticipation.

Theo blinked, his expression strained, as if the thought itself was painful. “Calm voice. Like someone accustomed to asking for favors… urgent ones. He—he didn’t come often. Just once. Left money on the table. Told me it would be safer if I said what he needed. I thought he was one of ours, Claire. A guardian. They all blend when you’re scared.”

The guilt lacing his voice hit me like a physical blow. I reached out, smoothing his hair back, allowing him to breathe until the tremors subsided.

It took me nearly a week to unravel a pattern. The warrior implicated in the sketch lived a life governed by rigid routine. Every morning, he polished his boots at the same worn bench. He never raised his voice in the barracks, maintaining a quiet demeanor, yet children were inexplicably drawn to him.

Once, I witnessed him kneel to adjust an old woman’s fraying shawl, ensuring the wind wouldn’t steal it from her shoulders. Another time, I caught him tending to a scraped knee, pretending he just happened to have a cloth on hand.

He was not a monster.

But even good men could make foolish choices. Good men could be coerced into actions they would otherwise scorn. Good men could lie.

So, when the morning dawned—cold and gray, the air thick with the scent of damp fur and hay—I approached him. He was polishing tack, his hands steady, moving with the kind of patience that only years of hardship could instill.

“Morning,” I greeted lightly, taking my time to step closer. “Do you always work this early?”

“Someone has to keep the pups from chewing everything,” he replied with a weary smile. “Mornings are easier than chasing them around at noon.”

We exchanged pleasantries at first—discussions about the weather, the rambunctious pups, the new shipment of feed. I let my heartbeat steady before I reached into my cloak and revealed the sketch.

His reaction was immediate and telling.

He laughed, but the laughter came too quickly, too loudly—a façade to mask the fear lurking beneath.

“Childish nonsense,” he scoffed, waving the drawing away dismissively.

I remained unmoved. “It’s accurate, though.”

The laughter faded, and a shadow flickered in his eyes. I settled onto a nearby stump, exhaling slowly to allow silence to envelop us.

“Did you ever meet Theo?” I asked gently. “Even once? Did you ever… pay him?”

His jaw tightened—not in anger, but in calculation. “No,” he replied firmly. “I’ve never spoken to the boy in my life.”

“Then why are you nervous?”

That evening, I returned with an herb broth that the healers claimed would soothe anxiety and sharpen clarity of thought. He sipped it slowly, his gaze flickering toward me as if searching for something in my expression.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked gently. “About what happened with Ethan that day?”

He stiffened, his spoon pausing mid-air. Then, with a heavy sigh, he set it down.

“He shouted,” Elijah murmured, his voice fragile. “So loudly that it felt like everything inside me shrank. I had gone after Theo. I wasn’t thinking. I thought I could handle it. But when I returned, he—he didn’t even let me speak.”

I reached across the table, brushing my fingers along his knuckles.

“Elijah…”

“He called me reckless.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Said I had embarrassed him. Humiliated the guards. That I’d risked the pack’s stability for one impulsive act.” His breath quivered, and he pressed a hand against his chest. “He never raises his voice, Claire. Never. But that day? It felt like his anger filled the entire courtyard.”

He clenched his hands tightly.

“I remember his fist—not hitting me, but raised. High enough that I saw the shadow of it before I saw the hand. I knew he wasn’t going to strike… but I felt like I had already been hit.”

His eyes glimmered with unshed tears. “That’s the echo. The thing that wraps itself around the bond and twists it. The memory that tells me I’m still small. That I’m still disappointing him.”

I moved closer, sitting beside him, intertwining my fingers with his.

“We’ll face it slowly,” I whispered. “With the healer. With me. You won’t be alone.”

He leaned forward, resting his forehead against mine for a long, trembling moment.

The journey to healing wouldn’t be easy. It wouldn’t be swift. But he finally uttered the words I desperately needed to hear:

“I trust you, Claire.”