His new stepsister His biggest threat (Claire and Elijah) novel Chapter 61

**Betrayal Births by Joseph King**
**Chapter 61**

**Claire’s POV**

It has been over two weeks since Naomi slipped away from our lives, and the oppressive silence that has settled in our home feels like a heavy fog, suffocating and unyielding. Each dawn, I awaken to that same dull ache in my heart, a reminder of the void where her laughter used to resonate in our shared spaces. The cafeteria, once alive with our chatter and shared secrets, now feels like a hollow shell, echoing the absence of her vibrant spirit. My phone sits beside me, filled with unanswered messages that seem to taunt me, their silence a haunting reminder of her disappearance. I tell myself, time and again, that she must be safe, perhaps just taking some time away to cool off over a trivial argument we had. But deep down, I know this is a fragile facade, a flimsy shield against the truth that gnaws at my insides.

Ethan’s pack buzzes with an undercurrent of tension, the atmosphere thick with unspoken fears and hushed whispers. The guards patrol the hallways with a sense of urgency that feels desperate, their eyes scanning for threats that seem to lurk just out of sight. Conversations about betrayals and rogue elements flit through the air like shadows, wrapping around me, tightening their grip with every passing hour. I can feel that tension seeping through the very walls of our home, smothering me in its embrace.

Elijah’s behavior only deepens my sense of unease. He has withdrawn into himself, his silence a stark contrast to the vibrant person I once knew. I catch glimpses of him, and it’s as if he’s a ghost, floating through the house, oblivious to my worried gaze. Since Naomi vanished, he has become a shell of his former self, retreating into a world of his own. Some days, I see a flicker of something in his eyes, a yearning to communicate, but other times, he moves past me like I’m not even there. I find myself caught in a web of conflicting emotions—my concern for him battling against my own grief.

One particularly tense Saturday morning finds me seated at the breakfast table, my plate untouched, the food growing cold as I stare blankly at the wall. My mother is engaged in a low conversation with Ethan, discussing the upcoming gala, her voice steady but her fingers betray her, gripping her cup tightly as if it’s the only thing anchoring her to reality. She’s trying so hard to maintain a semblance of normalcy, as if the weight of her recent miscarriage can be buried beneath the trivialities of everyday life. But the exhaustion etched into her features, the shadows that linger beneath her eyes, tell a different story. When her gaze meets mine, she forces a small smile and asks if I plan to eat. I nod absently, though my fork remains still, a silent testament to my turmoil.

Elijah bursts into the room midway through breakfast, his appearance disheveled, as if he’s been wrestling with sleep itself. His hair is tousled, and his shirt hangs half-tucked, giving him an air of exhaustion that tugs at my heart. Ethan addresses him about the new patrol schedules, their conversation a quiet murmur that feels distant and unimportant. When Elijah’s eyes finally meet mine, it’s a fleeting moment, a spark of connection before he averts his gaze back to his plate. A sharp pang of something painful coils in my chest, but I swallow my words, holding back the torrent of emotions threatening to spill out.

After breakfast, I watch him leave for the back field where the guards train. I can see him from the window, moving with a strength and precision that once captivated me. But now, that same control seems like a mask, hiding the loneliness that has taken root within him.

As the hours drag on, I desperately try to distract myself from thoughts of Naomi. I scroll through her old messages, reliving our shared laughter and the carefree moments that now feel like distant dreams. She never hinted at any trouble; if only she had, maybe I could have done something—anything—to prevent this nightmare. My wolf stirs restlessly within me, pacing back and forth, mirroring my own turmoil. She feels Naomi’s absence too, a stark reminder that wolves are not fond of losing their pack, no matter how small.

Night descends, and the house is swallowed by an unsettling silence. My mother has retreated to her room early, Ethan is locked away in his office, and Elijah has yet to return from his training. I find myself wide awake in my room, seated by the window, the moonlight casting a gentle glow across my desk. I gaze at my reflection in the glass, barely recognizing the pale, weary face staring back at me, feeling as though I’m looking at a stranger.

Suddenly, my phone buzzes beside me, and the sound sends my heart racing with a mix of hope and dread. I snatch it up, breath hitching in anticipation, praying for a message from Naomi.

But it’s an unknown number.

The text is empty, a void where words should be. I sit there, staring at the screen, my heart pounding erratically as I hope for another message to follow. When nothing comes, I set the phone down and lie back in bed, my eyes glued to the ceiling. I try to convince myself it’s just a wrong number; it has to be.

Yet the next morning, the same number calls me three times in quick succession. Each time I answer, I’m met with silence. Just a faint, static noise, like the sound of someone breathing. I call out a hesitant “hello” twice, and then louder, but the line remains eerily quiet. On the third call, I choose to remain silent, pressing the phone closer to my ear, straining to catch even the faintest sound. And then, just barely, I hear it—a small, trembling breath. My heart stops. I whisper Naomi’s name, but just like that, the line goes dead.

I sit frozen for what feels like an eternity, the phone still clutched in my hand. The sun begins to rise, spilling light into my room, but I hardly register it.

When I finally make my way downstairs, I find Elijah already in the living room. He looks up from his coffee, concern etched on his face as he takes in my pale appearance.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice laced with worry.

“I think someone called me,” I whisper, my voice barely a breath. “An unknown number. They didn’t say anything, but I think it was Naomi.”

He straightens, urgency flooding his expression. “You think?”

“I heard breathing,” I insist, desperation creeping into my tone. “It sounded like her.”

Without a word, he moves closer, his face tense. “Show me the number.”

I hand him my phone, and he studies the screen intently, his brow furrowing in concentration before looking back at me. “You shouldn’t have answered it.”

“It could have been her,” I argue, my voice rising slightly.

“Or it could have been whoever took her,” he counters, his tone firm but not unkind. The weight of his words hits me hard, a cold realization settling in. “They could be tracking you now.”

I pull my hand back, irritation flaring within me. “You don’t know that.”

“No, but I’m not going to risk it,” he replies, his voice steady and resolute. “Give me the phone. I’ll have someone trace the signal.”

I hesitate for a moment, then reluctantly hand it over. He strides to the corner of the room, making a call. I can’t catch every word, but I hear fragments—trace, border line, coordinate sweep.

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