His new stepsister His biggest threat (Claire and Elijah) novel Chapter 70

**TITLE: Betrayal Births by Joseph King**

**Chapter 70**

**Claire’s POV**

The evening sprawls before me like an endless, twisting path, each tick of the clock stretching time into a slow crawl. From my room, I can hear the gentle murmur of my mother’s voice, a soothing melody that drifts through the thin wall, mingling with the deeper, reassuring tones of Ethan. Their conversation creates a comforting symphony, a sign of their shared joy, perhaps even laughter, that feels like home.

I’m nestled in my bed, a book resting on my lap, but the words blur together, swirling into an unintelligible fog. My stomach grumbles softly, a reminder of the hours that have passed since I last ate. With a resigned sigh, I toss the book aside, letting it thud against the bed. I slip into a cozy sweater, the fabric warm against my skin, and step into the hallway, the cool air brushing against me like a gentle caress.

As I make my way down the stairs, the kitchen welcomes me with familiar scents—a blend of fresh oranges and the lingering aroma of soap. The soft glow of the overhead light casts a warm halo around the room, making it feel inviting. There, by the sink, stands Elijah, sleeves rolled up, his focus intent as he rinses a plate, water cascading over his hands in a serene flow.

He looks up as I enter, his damp hair falling over his forehead, giving him a boyish charm. “You’re awake,” he notes, his voice a low rumble that resonates in the stillness.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I reply, my voice sounding unusually loud, echoing off the walls as if to fill the space with my presence.

Elijah dries his hands with a towel, his movements deliberate. “There’s food left in the fridge. You should eat something,” he suggests, the casual tone of his voice belied by the underlying concern that lingers.

“You cooked again?” I ask, swinging open the fridge door, the cool air rushing out to greet me like a refreshing breeze.

“Dad asked me to try new recipes,” he explains, turning off the faucet and leaning against the counter, a casual posture that belies the seriousness of his words. “He said it’s better than brooding.”

I can’t help but snort, pulling out a container of pasta and another of grilled chicken. “You made this?” I ask, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.

He nods, a flicker of pride dancing in his eyes. “I did.”

As I place the plate in the microwave, the appliance hums to life, and I glance back at him. He’s watching the timer as if it holds the secrets of the universe, completely engrossed in the moment.

“You surprise me sometimes,” I say, a teasing lilt creeping into my voice.

“That’s rare,” he replies, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“What is?” I inquire, genuinely curious.

“You admitting it,” he counters, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

I fold my arms loosely, a playful smile blooming on my lips. “Don’t get used to it.”

He looks amused, but wisely chooses to keep his thoughts to himself. The microwave beeps, and I retrieve the plate, grabbing a fork and settling at the table across from him. He’s opened a folder, a pen in hand, tapping it lightly against the paper in a rhythm that feels almost musical.

“What’s that? You studying?” I ask between bites, surprised by how delicious the food is.

“Trying to,” he replies, his gaze still fixed on the page.

“What for?” I prod, my curiosity piqued.

“Coach wants our grades solid before the next season,” he explains, finally meeting my eyes. “If I fail, he’ll bench me.”

“You worry about that?” I ask, taken aback by his admission.

“Not really. It’s just routine,” he shrugs, his tone dismissive as if the weight of it doesn’t truly affect him.

The food is surprisingly satisfying, and I lift another forkful, glancing up at him. “This is actually nice,” I admit, a hint of surprise coloring my tone.

“You sound surprised,” he replies, a teasing glint lighting up his eyes.

“I am,” I say, pointing my fork at him playfully. “You never let anyone watch you cook.”

“You’d only critique it,” he counters, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

I chuckle softly. “Probably.”

He leans back in his chair, arms crossed, observing me as I finish my meal. His gaze flickers between my face and the plate, calm yet inscrutable. When I finally set my fork down, he swiftly takes the plate from me before I can protest.

“You don’t have to—” I start, but he interrupts.

“I know,” he replies, rinsing it quickly and setting it aside to dry. His shoulders shift under the thin fabric of his shirt as he turns back to me, his expression lighter than before.

“How’s Naomi?” he asks, his tone shifting to something more serious.

“Better. She’s walking without help now,” I respond, a smile creeping onto my face at the thought, the image of her determination brightening my mood.

“That’s good,” he says, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve. “Has she said anything about… what happened?”

“She’s still trying to remember parts of it,” I reply, my voice dropping slightly, the gravity of the situation weighing on my heart.

He nods, his eyes downcast. “That might be for the best.”

“She also said you’ve changed. But that’s just girl gossip,” I wink, trying to lighten the mood. “It’s just rare that she noticed.”

Except it wasn’t merely gossip, and I find myself searching for anything to discuss with him, a lifeline in the sea of uncertainty.

He looks up, curiosity etched on his face. “Did she?”

“Yeah. She said you don’t act like you used to,” I confirm, watching his reaction closely.

He studies me quietly, biting the inside of his cheek as if weighing my words. “Do you agree?” he asks after a moment.

“I think you’ve grown quieter,” I say thoughtfully. “Less sharp.”

“In a good way?” he presses, his eyes searching mine, probing for validation.

“I’ll decide later,” I reply with a teasing smile, hoping to ease the tension.

He lets out a quiet breath, a sound that could almost be a laugh. “That’s fair.”

The silence that envelops us isn’t heavy; it’s comfortable. The clock ticks softly above the doorway, marking the passage of time. I pull one knee up against the chair and rest my chin on it, lost in thought.

“What made you start hockey?” I ask suddenly, the question slipping out before I can second-guess myself.

His head tilts slightly, and he looks at me with genuine surprise. “That’s random.”

“I’m curious,” I respond, my interest piqued, eager to delve into his world.

He takes a moment to think, scratching the back of his neck. “I was nine. Dad wanted me to learn combat training. I hated it. Hockey was the only thing that shut out everything else,” he explains, his voice softening as he shares this piece of himself.

“Do you still like it?” I ask, leaning forward, eager to hear more of his thoughts.

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