His new stepsister His biggest threat (Claire and Elijah) novel Chapter 141

**TITLE: Betrayal Births**

**Chapter 141**

**Claire’s POV**

As I turned around, my movements felt almost dreamlike, and there he was—Elijah—leaning casually against the edge of his bed. He appeared far too composed for someone who had a bewildered girl standing in his room, trying to piece together how she had ended up here.

His hair was tousled, as if he had been running his fingers through it in frustration or perhaps contemplation. And then, my gaze drifted down, and I froze—his chest was completely exposed.

Bare.

As in, no shirt at all.

As in, those sculpted muscles were just there, effortlessly distracting me and turning my thoughts into a jumbled mess.

When had he even—

How had I walked—

Why was he—

I felt my throat tighten, wishing for the ground to open up and swallow me whole.

“Elijah,” I managed to say, striving for a tone of calmness that I clearly lacked, my voice quivering slightly, “how did I get here?”

“You opened the door,” he replied, his voice laced with a gentle weariness. “Your door is just two steps to the left, but you completely ignored it. You walked right into my room, turned around twice as if you were inspecting a hotel suite, and then declared that you wanted to sit down. And then you plopped down on my bed. When I asked what you were doing, you told me my room had a nice… ‘vibe.'”

I buried my face in my hands, mortified. “I did not.”

“You really did,” he chuckled softly, amusement dancing in his eyes.

I let my palms slide down my cheeks, forcing myself to meet his gaze once more. Oh, what a mistake that was. A catastrophic mistake, really, because that was when I fully registered that he wasn’t even wearing jeans.

He was clad in sweatpants.

Low-hanging, grey sweatpants.

My heart didn’t just skip a beat; it raced wildly, pounding against my ribcage like it was trying to escape. My mind felt hazy, struggling to grasp the situation.

“Elijah,” I breathed, my voice barely above a whisper, “why are you not wearing a shirt?”

He raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth twitching in amusement. “Because I was getting ready to sleep before you barged in.”

“Oh.”

My voice came out sounding like it had been dipped in embarrassment, thick and sticky.

“And why are you staring at me like that?” he asked, his tone dropping, arms crossing over his chest as if he needed to shield himself from my gaze. “You’re drunk, Claire.”

“I’m not that drunk,” I protested, but the words tumbled out like warm honey, thick and slow. “I’m… only a little drunk.”

“You smell like an entire winery. You’ve had too much to drink, and you need sleep.”

Heat flooded my face, creeping down my neck like boiling water being poured beneath my skin. And then, in a moment of complete idiocy, I blurted out:

“Well… your room is still very nice.”

He closed his eyes for a brief moment, as if trying to suppress a wave of despair. “Claire, you need to go to your room before you do something you’ll regret in the morning.”

“I won’t regret anything,” I said automatically, then blinked, awareness dawning. “Wait. Why did I say that out loud?”

“You tell me.”

He took a step closer, reaching for my hand, but hesitated, his fingers hovering just above mine as if he feared the consequences of contact. His voice dropped, controlled and low, “Mom and Dad are still downstairs. If they see you leaving my room at this hour, drunk and swaying, we will both have to explain something that we cannot explain.”

I nodded, grasping the logic behind his words, but my feet felt like they were glued to the floor. When his hand finally enveloped mine, a slow, warm wave rolled through my stomach, dizzying and intoxicating.

“Elijah,” I whispered, “you’re warm.”

“And you’re trouble,” he murmured, pulling me gently toward the door.

“Come on.”

He cracked the door open slightly, peering down the hallway. The warm glow of the lights from downstairs spilled up the staircase, soft and inviting. I could hear my mom’s laughter mingling with Ethan’s, a light, happy sound that floated through the air, still buoyant with the joy of her recent news.

A smile crept onto my face, unbidden. “Why are you breathing so hard?”

“Why are you doing this to me?”

My breath hitched, caught in my throat. “Huh?”

He shut his eyes, every muscle in his body taut, ready to snap. “Claire, you need to leave right now before I—”

But he didn’t finish his thought.

When he opened his eyes again, the tension between us snapped, a sharp, silent moment that hung in the air.

His hand cupped my cheek, warm and impossibly gentle.

Mine flinched, but only because my heart did a somersault in my chest.

“Elijah,” I whispered, feeling as though I was teetering on the edge of something perilous. “I’m not supposed to want this.”

“And I’m not supposed to want you,” he breathed, the space between us shrinking.

Our foreheads touched, a fragile connection that sent shivers down my spine.

His thumb brushed the corner of my lip, igniting a fire within me.

My knees felt like jelly, and the world around us faded into the background, leaving just the sound of our breaths and the rapid thrum of my heart.

“Elijah…”

He leaned in—slowly, agonizingly slow—as if he wanted to give me a lifetime to pull away.

I didn’t.

Our lips met in a soft, trembling kiss that tasted like every forbidden feeling I had buried deep within for months. It wasn’t wild or desperate; it was slow, warm, and melting away the remnants of my already blurry senses. The kind of kiss that shattered every rule we had been so desperately trying to uphold.

His hand slid behind my waist, pulling me gently closer, and mine curled into his shoulder, feeling the quiet shiver that coursed through him.

The kiss deepened, each breath mingling, the world around us fading into oblivion. His wolf stirred beneath his skin, restless, hungry, and barely restrained.