His new stepsister His biggest threat (Claire and Elijah) novel Chapter 68

**TITLE: Betrayal Births by Joseph King 68**
**CONTENT: Chapter 68**

**Claire’s POV**

Breakfast stretches before me like a vast, unending road, each tick of the clock amplifying the silence that envelops our table. The clattering of utensils creates a dissonant symphony against the backdrop of unspoken worries and heavy hearts. Naomi remains upstairs, ensconced in her dreams, while Ethan is absorbed in the glowing screen of his phone, his fingers flying over the keys as if he’s on a quest for something vital. My mother rises repeatedly, her anxious glances darting toward the staircase, her brow knitted with concern. Across the table, Elijah sits with an air of calm, yet there’s an enigmatic quality to him that piques my curiosity, especially when my eyes catch the fresh cut marring his jawline. It’s a small detail, but it gnaws at me, conjuring questions about how he came to be injured, and I find myself torn between the urge to inquire and the instinct to hold back.

As breakfast draws to a close, the chairs scrape against the floor, breaking the spell of silence that has settled over us. Elijah rises first, his posture impeccable, and his voice carries a low authority that commands attention. “Training in fifteen minutes,” he announces, his tone leaving no room for debate.

I nod, trying to suppress the flutter of anxiety that dances in my stomach. This training session is crucial; it’s our second-to-last before the gala looms on the horizon—a grand event that fills me with a mix of excitement and dread, like standing on the edge of a precipice.

As I step into the corridor, the air is infused with the scent of polish, mingling with the warmth of sunlight filtering through the tall windows. My bare feet connect with the coolness of the marble floor, each step a grounding reminder amidst the chaos swirling in my mind. I begin to count my steps, seeking a rhythm that might quell the storm within.

Upon entering the training room, I find Elijah already there, meticulously arranging practice mats with an attention to detail that speaks volumes about his commitment. The soft strains of music drift through the air, a gentle backdrop to the impending session, providing a contrast to the tension that crackles between us.

He looks up as I step inside, and a flicker of approval dances across his features. “You’re early yet again. I like that,” he remarks, a hint of warmth in his voice.

“So are you,” I retort, a teasing lilt creeping into my tone.

He shrugs, a nonchalant gesture that belies his own dedication. “We’ll start with balance drills. Then we’ll move on to posture and stance control. You’ve made progress, but you still tend to fidget when you’re unsure.”

“You mean when I’m nervous,” I interject, unable to resist the urge to clarify.

“That too,” he concedes, his tone matter-of-fact, as if stating the obvious.

A quiet exhale escapes my lips as I roll my eyes, feeling the familiar weight of his observation. “You have a habit of pointing that out.”

“Because you forget,” he counters, his gaze unwavering. “Your movements betray you.”

A frown tugs at my lips, but I stride toward the center of the room, determined to shake off the weight of his words. “You’re not going to make me balance books on my head again, are you?”

He casts a sidelong glance, amusement glimmering in his eyes. “You’ll see.”

“That’s a yes, isn’t it?” I press, enjoying the playful challenge.

“Maybe,” he replies, a smirk dancing on his lips.

I shake my head, struggling to suppress a smile. “You enjoy this way too much.”

His laughter fills the room, a sound that warms the atmosphere. “Only because you make it interesting.”

The simplicity of his remark resonates within me, igniting a warmth that lingers. I choose silence, allowing the moment to hang between us.

Elijah steps closer, hands tucked casually into his pockets, exuding a relaxed confidence that both calms and excites me. “First lesson is posture. You walk too fast. It gives away your impatience.”

“I’m not impatient,” I retort, defensiveness creeping into my voice, a reflexive response.

He glances at my feet before meeting my gaze again. “Prove it. Cross the room slowly.”

With a resigned sigh, I comply, forcing myself to take deliberate, measured steps. Each movement feels foreign, as if I’m learning to walk anew. Midway across the room, I falter slightly, and before I can regain my balance, his hand finds its way to my waist, steadying me with surprising ease.

“Slow down,” he murmurs, his voice low and intimate, the warmth of it brushing against my ear and sending shivers down my spine.

For a heartbeat, the world around me fades, and I forget how to move. I take another cautious step, and he follows closely behind, his hand lingering just long enough to guide me without imposing.

“Better,” he acknowledges, his tone encouraging, yet it sends a thrill of awareness coursing through me.

“I feel ridiculous,” I admit, my cheeks warming under his scrutiny.

“You look fine,” he assures me, but something in his tone sends my heart racing, igniting a mix of hope and uncertainty.

I glance back at him, but he’s already stepping away, creating a distance that feels both comforting and unsettling.

We repeat the drill until I finally manage to cross the room without stumbling. When I succeed, he nods, a hint of pride flickering in his expression. “Good. You’re getting it.”

“So what’s next?” I ask, eager to move on, desperate to quell the tension that hangs between us.

“Conversation. The gala isn’t just about standing around. You’ll need to engage with others,” he explains, his voice steady.

“I can talk,” I protest lightly, trying to inject some humor into the moment.

“Not like that. You can’t interrupt, fidget, or roll your eyes,” he states, his tone firm, leaving little room for argument.

I raise an eyebrow, feigning shock. “That eliminates most of my personality.”

“Then you’ll have to improvise,” he replies, a hint of challenge lacing his words.

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