His new stepsister His biggest threat (Claire and Elijah) novel Chapter 132

**Betrayal Births by Joseph King 132**

**Claire’s POV**

It was peculiar how I found myself attending every single one of Elijah’s practices, as if some unseen force was guiding my steps to the rink.

Life at school had a way of settling into a predictable rhythm, and both of us had adapted to it with surprising ease.

The rink enveloped me in a familiar blend of scents: the sharp tang of sweat mingled with the coolness of ice and the sticky sweetness of resin. The sound of blades gliding over frozen steel resonated loudly in my ears, drowning out even the quickened beats of my heart.

As I stepped through the doors behind Elijah, I made a conscious effort to keep my excitement in check, careful not to trip over my own anticipation. He had been absent from practice for what felt like an eternity, and now, at long last, he was back.

“Don’t get too distracted,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the ice ahead, allowing his words to drift between us like the chill in the air. “I need my focus today.”

“I’m not distracted,” I replied softly, though I was painfully aware of the deception in my voice. My eyes were glued to every sharp turn of his skates, every powerful push against the ice, and the way he pivoted as if he were the very essence of the rink itself.

Coach Williams blew his whistle, cutting through the atmosphere like a knife. “Alright, team. Form two lines and start passing drills. Elijah, you begin with line B. Let’s see if you remember everything you’ve learned during your time away.”

Elijah nodded, his eyes narrowing with determination, his body coiling with purpose as if he were a predator ready to pounce. I lingered at the edge of the rink, gripping the boards tightly, feeling a magnetic pull in the pit of my stomach. Every shift of his body, every sprint he took, was an irresistible force that drew me closer.

My wolf stirred within me, restless and alert, but I forced myself to remain still, watching intently without intervening.

The practice unfolded rapidly, drills seamlessly transitioning into scrimmage. Teammates shouted instructions, offered encouragement, and occasionally voiced complaints. Elijah’s control was almost unnervingly precise. He intercepted passes with the grace of a dancer, redirected players with ease, and sliced through the defense like a knife through butter.

“Claire,” he called out suddenly, his voice low and intimate amidst the echoing sounds of the rink. “Keep your eyes open. I don’t want you stepping onto the ice when I’m moving.”

“I’ll stay out of the way,” I whispered back, though my heart raced at the thought of being so close yet so far. It was impossible to distance myself entirely. I simply couldn’t ignore him.

Then, in a split second, a sudden collision between two players sent the puck hurtling toward the boards where I stood. Reflexively, I caught it, drawing curious glances from nearby teammates.

Elijah’s eyes flicked to me, concern etched across his features.

“Careful with that,” he muttered when the practice paused momentarily. “Don’t get hit by someone who doesn’t see you.”

“I’ve got it,” I replied, handing the puck back to him. His fingers brushed against mine, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt of electricity racing through my veins.

It felt like the quiet crackle of a storm brewing just beneath the surface of my skin.

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