His new stepsister His biggest threat (Claire and Elijah) novel Chapter 142

**Betrayal Births by Joseph King**

**Chapter 141**

**Claire’s POV**

As I shifted my body, the room around me came into focus, revealing Elijah casually leaning against the edge of his bed. His demeanor was astonishingly serene, a stark contrast to the whirlwind of confusion that swirled within me.

His hair was tousled, as if he had run his fingers through it countless times, and my gaze inadvertently fell upon his bare chest—oh God, his chest was completely exposed.

Bare.

As in, no shirt at all.

As in, muscles that seemed to mock my ability to think straight.

When had he even changed?

How had I managed to walk in here without noticing?

Why was he—

I felt my throat tighten, wishing desperately that the ground would open up and swallow me whole.

“Elijah,” I managed to say, my voice trembling despite my efforts to sound steady, “how did I end up here?”

“You opened the door,” he replied, his tone soft yet tinged with a hint of exhaustion. “Your door is two steps to the left, but you chose to ignore it, walked right into my room, turned around as if you were inspecting a hotel suite, and then declared that you wanted to sit down. So, you sat on my bed. And when I asked you what you were doing, you told me my room had a nice… ‘vibe.'”

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

“Oh, but you did.”

Slowly, I lowered my hands and forced myself to meet his gaze once more. In retrospect, that was a dreadful decision. A catastrophic mistake. Because that was when my eyes fully absorbed the fact that he wasn’t even wearing jeans.

He was clad in sweatpants.

Low-hanging, grey sweatpants.

My heart didn’t just skip; it raced, leaping into a chaotic rhythm that left my mind spinning.

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

He raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement dancing in his eyes. “Because I was about to go to sleep before you barged in.”

“Oh.”

My response came out sounding like a confession of my embarrassment.

“And why are you staring at me like that?” he asked softly, his arms crossing over his chest as if he needed to create a barrier between us. “You’re drunk, Claire.”

“I’m not that drunk,” I protested, but the words slurred together like honey melting in the sun. “I’m… only a little drunk.”

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

A wave of heat rushed to my face, creeping down my neck as if someone had poured boiling water beneath my skin. And then, because my brain was clearly on holiday, I blurted out:

“Well… your room is still very nice.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, a look of despair crossing his features. “Claire, you need to get back to your room before you do something you’ll regret in the morning.”

“I won’t regret anything,” I replied automatically, then blinked in confusion. “Wait. Why did I say that out loud?”

“You tell me.”

He stepped closer, reaching for my hand, but hesitated, his fingers hovering as if he feared the consequences of touching me. His voice dropped to a controlled whisper.

“Mom and Dad are still downstairs. If they see you leaving my room at this hour, drunk and swaying, we’ll both have to explain something we can’t possibly explain.”

I nodded, fully grasping the logic behind his words, yet utterly incapable of acting on it. When his hand finally enveloped mine, a warm, dizzying wave surged through my stomach.

“Elijah,” I whispered, feeling the heat radiate from him. “You’re warm.”

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

“Come on.”

He cracked the door open slightly and peered down the hallway. The warm, golden glow from downstairs spilled up the staircase, illuminating the space around us. I could hear my mom’s laughter mingling with Ethan’s, light and carefree, still basking in the glow of her recent news.

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