His new stepsister His biggest threat (Claire and Elijah) novel Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

**Claire’s POV**

The abrupt knock on my door shattered the fragile cocoon of sleep that had enveloped me. It was too early, the kind of early where the world was still wrapped in a blanket of soft gray, and the sun was merely a promise on the horizon, casting timid shadows that danced across my curtains.

With a groan that felt more like a lament, I shifted in bed, the weight of slumber heavy on my limbs. I rubbed my eyes, trying to dispel the lingering fog that clung to my thoughts like a stubborn cloud.

Maria, our ever-reliable housekeeper, peeked her head into my room, her dark hair twisted into a messy bun that spoke of a long morning ahead. Her smile was gentle, yet it held a glimmer of mischief, as if she were privy to a secret that eluded me.

“You’ve got a visitor,” she announced, her voice playful, as if she were sharing delightful gossip.

I sat up, the blankets sliding down to my waist, the cool air sending a shiver across my skin. “Who?” I croaked, my voice still thick with sleep, like I was trying to pull words from a dream.

But I didn’t need to wait for her answer.

A voice rang out from downstairs, unmistakable and vibrant, slicing through the morning stillness like a spark igniting kindling. “Claire! Where are you hiding?”

Naomi. Naturally.

With a reluctant effort, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my oversized hoodie slipping off one shoulder, my hair a wild, untamed mess that I had no intention of taming.

The cold hardwood floor met my bare feet, sending a jolt of awareness through me as I shuffled into the hallway.

There stood Naomi, a whirlwind of energy by the banister, her blonde curls bouncing with every movement, and her grin stretched wide, an embodiment of morning cheerfulness that seemed almost unnatural at this hour. She radiated light and enthusiasm, as if the dawn itself dared not dull her shine.

But the first thought that struck me was anything but warm. It hit me like a punch to the gut: She’s here for him. For Elijah. I could almost picture her casting hopeful glances down the hall, waiting for him to saunter by, his head tilted just so, that sharp jawline and even sharper attitude on full display.

A tightness coiled in my chest, a dull ache blooming behind my ribs. I despised how much he affected me, how he burrowed under my skin without even trying.

Naomi’s smile faltered for just a moment, as if she could sense the storm brewing within me. “Don’t look at me like that, Claire,” she said, her voice dropping an octave as she stepped closer, a hint of urgency in her tone. “I’m not here for him.”

She rummaged through her tote bag, producing a crinkly pack of chocolate croissants, holding them up like a peace offering, a gesture that felt both absurd and sweet. “I came to apologize.”

I blinked, confusion mingling with the remnants of sleep clouding my thoughts. From what I knew of Naomi, she was not one to wear guilt in her brown eyes, especially not with that dim light catching them.

Sincerity flickered there, and I found myself intrigued.

“For what?” I mumbled, crossing my arms defensively, though my heart was already beginning to thaw.

“Yesterday,” she admitted, her fingers twisting nervously at the edge of her bag. “I was a jerk. I snapped at you, pushed you into things you weren’t ready for. You were right, and I was… wrong. I’m really sorry, Claire.”

The weight of her words settled around me like a warm breeze, unexpected and disarming. I stared at the croissants, the plastic wrapper crinkling in her hands, and I felt something inside me shift, like ice melting under the gentle kiss of sunlight.

I sighed, rubbing my forehead as if trying to erase the tension. “Naomi…”

“I hate fighting with you,” she confessed, stepping closer, her voice dropping to a near whisper, as if she were sharing a fragile truth. “You’re the only real friend I’ve got, Claire. Please don’t be mad at me.”

Her eyes were wide and pleading, and I felt the weight of her words settle heavily in the air between us. Naomi was chaos incarnate, always dragging me into her wild escapades, but she was also my anchor, my lifeline in the storm.

She had pulled me through the darker days I had faced here, even if she didn’t fully realize it. I couldn’t maintain my anger, not when she looked as though she might shatter if I did.

“Fine,” I muttered, a reluctant smile tugging at my lips despite myself. “But you’re eating most of those croissants.”

Her grin returned, bright and infectious. “Deal.”

As we made our way to school, I felt like a soldier preparing for battle, already bruised from the skirmishes of the past.

Naomi stayed close, her chatter a soothing hum that drowned out the noise of the world around us. She rambled on about her latest playlist, the coffee shop she was eager to try, and anything else that might keep my mind distracted from the stares that followed me like shadows.

For a while, it worked. Her voice was a lifeline, pulling me through the morning, and I leaned into it, grateful for her efforts, even if they couldn’t fully erase the weight pressing against my chest. I felt strangely tight, as if something was coiling within me.

But then came third period, and that’s when everything unraveled.

He was half-turned, as if he’d been about to leave, but his dark eyes locked onto mine, unreadable, his expression blank. No smirk, no sneer. Just stillness, like the calm before a storm.

My heart stuttered, not from the panic attack but from the weight of his gaze. He saw me—truly saw me—and it felt as if he were peeling back the layers I had so carefully hidden from everyone else.

He didn’t move closer, didn’t even acknowledge the fact that I was nearly crumbling in front of him.

And somehow, that silence cut deeper than any laugh or taunt ever could.

The nurse’s office greeted me with the sterile scent of antiseptic and the bitter aroma of old coffee, a calm that felt oppressive against my skin. I sat on the crinkly paper of the exam table, my hands clasped tightly together to suppress the trembling.

Naomi hovered nearby, wringing her hands, her eyes darting between me and the nurse who was checking my pulse with a practiced calm.

“It was just an episode,” I insisted, my voice small and tinged with embarrassment. “I’m fine now.”

The nurse nodded, scribbling something down, but before she could respond, the door swung open with a force that made my heart leap. Mom stormed in, her heels clicking sharply against the tile, her face pale as moonlight.

“Claire,” she said, her voice breaking on my name as she rushed to my side, hands fluttering over me as if she were unsure where to touch. “What happened?”

“Mom, it’s nothing—”

“Nothing?” Her voice cracked with fear. “I get a call saying you collapsed in the hallway, and you call it nothing?”

My cheeks flushed with shame, the heat rising higher than the dizziness had ever been. “I didn’t collapse,” I mumbled, but even I could hear the weakness in my words.

The nurse gave Mom a quick rundown—heart rate, medication, rest—but Mom barely absorbed any of it.

She gathered my bag, her hand firm on my shoulder, guiding me up. “You’re coming home. Now.”

Naomi squeezed my hand, her fingers warm and steady, a silent promise of support. “Text me, okay? Promise.”