His new stepsister His biggest threat (Claire and Elijah) novel Chapter 285

Chapter 285

Elijah’s POV

The peace of the morning was shattered not by a sound, but by a sudden, jarring shift in the atmosphere.

Claire was still asleep in the sunroom, her breathing deep and even for the first time in days, when the perimeter alarms at the base of the ridge began to howl.

It wasn’t the frantic, loud burst of a physical breach; it was the long, low drone that signaled a formal approach.

72 bpm. Was Claire’s heart beat and for some reason it settled me.

I stood up slowly, careful not to wake her. My body felt like it was held together by wire and stubbornness, but the second the alarm sounded, the manor hummed back to life.

I stepped out onto the balcony, looking down the winding mountain road. Everything seemed normal but I knew it was false.

A single armored vehicle, painted in the matte grey of the Southern diplomatic corps, sat idling at the main gates. No weapons were mounted. No Sentinels flanked it. It sat there, solitary and cold, a fleck of steel against the vibrant green of the forest.

“Elijah,” Silas called from the hallway, his face grim. “They’re asking for an audience. They claim to represent the High Council, not Thorne’s office.”

“Thorne’s office doesn’t exist anymore,” I muttered, grabbing a clean shirt and pulling it over my bandages. “Bring the messenger to the Great Hall. And Grandpa? Tell the pack to stay in the shadows. I want this person to feel how many eyes are on them. So they know better than to act funny”.

The Great Hall was draped in shadows, the morning light struggling to penetrate the thick stone walls. Everything set for the grand entrance of the pack’s messenger.

I sat in the high-backed chair at the head of the long oak table, my hands resting flat on the wood. Dad stood to my left, his arms crossed, his scent sharp with the metallic tang of a wolf ready to shift.

The doors creaked open slowly.

The messenger was a woman, small and unassuming, dressed in a sharp, slate-grey uniform that lacked any insignia of rank.

She didn’t walk like a soldier; she walked like an accountant. She carried a single briefcase of brushed aluminum and a tablet that glowed with an amber light.

She stopped ten feet from the table and bowed-not low enough to show submission, but enough to acknowledge the territory.

“Alpha Hale,” she said. Her voice was thin and dry, like old parchment. “I am Envoy Marcus. I speak for the High Council of the Southern Regency.”

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