His new stepsister His biggest threat (Claire and Elijah) novel Chapter 90

**TITLE: Betrayal Births**

**Chapter 90**

**Claire’s POV**

Here I am, still standing in this kitchen, a ridiculous strand of hair finally dislodged from my mouth, attempting to appear composed.

Elijah, however, turns back to the stove, effortlessly flipping the reheated food with one hand, as if my entire world didn’t just freeze the moment he made contact with me.

“So you’re just going to act like that didn’t happen?” I challenge, crossing my arms defiantly, trying to mask the flutter of nerves in my stomach.

He glances back over his shoulder, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Pretend what didn’t happen?”

I roll my eyes, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. “You know exactly what I mean.”

His expression shifts, a knowing look passing across his face—the kind that says he’s fully aware of the tension but is refusing to give me the satisfaction of acknowledging it. “Nope. Nothing happened. You just had bad aim.”

“Bad aim?” I echo incredulously, my eyebrows shooting up in disbelief.

“You tried to taste the food and ended up eating your own hair instead,” he quips, a smirk dancing on his lips.

I let out a sharp breath, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “Wow. Thanks for that.”

“Anytime,” he replies, still grinning.

I narrow my eyes at him, feeling an odd mix of annoyance and amusement. He looks like he just won some sort of small victory, and maybe he did, because I can feel the air between us shift slightly.

After finishing the reheating process, he plates the food again and slides one of the plates toward me with a casual flick of his wrist. “Eat.”

“Yes, Captain,” I respond, a playful tone slipping into my voice.

“You can’t call me that,” he shoots back immediately, though a smile betrays his feigned indignation.

The kitchen, once again, feels warm—not in temperature, but in the ease of our banter. We stand at the counter, half-leaning, half-hovering over our plates, the atmosphere casual yet charged with an unspoken acknowledgment of the earlier moment.

As I take a few bites, my gaze drifts toward the back door. I notice the gentle patter of rain against the window, but it’s already beginning to slow.

“It stopped,” I say, breaking the momentary silence.

“What did?” he asks, glancing up at the small window above the sink.

“The rain,” I clarify, my eyes still fixed on the droplets racing down the glass.

He looks back at me, a hint of surprise in his expression. “Seems like it.”

An impulsive thought strikes me before I even fully process it. “Kind of makes me want to go outside.”

He raises an eyebrow, skepticism written all over his face. “Right now?”

“Yeah. Why not?” I respond, feeling a surge of defiance.

He wipes his hands on a towel, a hint of concern creeping into his voice. “It’s almost midnight.”

“That’s not an answer,” I retort, challenging him.

He studies me for a moment, as if searching for something in my expression—perhaps a hint of hesitation or doubt. Finally, he nods.

“Alright. Let’s go.”

The simplicity of his agreement sends a warmth blooming in my chest, a feeling I hadn’t expected.

We step outside through the back door, and the world greets us with a serene stillness. It’s not an eerie quiet but rather a peaceful pause, as if nature itself is catching its breath after the rain’s departure. The walkway is softly illuminated by the porch light, and the trees in the yard drip slowly, the sound a gentle rhythm in the night.

Elijah slips his hands into his pockets, glancing at me. “Cold?”

“A little,” I admit, though it’s more from the chill of the night air than anything else.

He raises his brows, silently questioning whether he should offer me his jacket. I quickly shake my head, not wanting him to fuss over me. “I’m fine. Don’t start.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he replies, though I can hear the teasing lilt in his voice.

“You were absolutely going to,” I counter, smirking.

He huffs a small laugh but doesn’t argue further. Together, we stroll across the yard toward the open trail that leads into the woods behind the house. I hesitate when I feel the ground soften beneath my feet.

“Are we allowed to go in there?” I ask, glancing at the darkened trees looming ahead.

“It’s our property,” he explains, a hint of nostalgia in his tone. “Mostly Dad’s, but still ours.”

“Oh,” I respond, letting the weight of his words settle between us.

“You used to come here all the time,” he adds, his voice tinged with a bittersweet familiarity.

The statement hangs in the air, carefully chosen. He knows it might stir something within me, but he says it anyway. I can’t help but appreciate his bravery in bringing it up, even if I don’t want him to know how much it means to me.

“What would I do?” I inquire softly, curiosity tinged with uncertainty.

“Walk. Think,” he replies, pausing for a moment as if recalling a distant memory. “Sometimes you’d drag me out here with you.”

“And you hated it, didn’t you?” I tease, trying to lighten the mood.

His lips twitch in a suppressed smile. “No. I never hated being anywhere with you.”

My breath catches in my throat, but I force myself to keep moving forward. If I stop, I’ll start to overthink everything. The damp earth squishes beneath my feet, each step feeling more grounded, and the cool air wraps around me like a gentle embrace—refreshing, not biting.

We walk slowly along the narrow trail, the silence between us comfortable yet charged. I glance up through the canopy of trees and notice the sky beginning to clear. A few stars peek through the dark blue, faint but undeniably present.

“Pretty,” I murmur, captivated.

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