His new stepsister His biggest threat (Claire and Elijah) novel Chapter 96

**TITLE: Betrayal Births by Joseph King**
**Chapter 96**

**Claire’s POV**

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1

Mom’s question reverberates in my mind, “Do you have a boyfriend?” It’s as if the air itself has thickened, making it hard to breathe, and I can still feel the remnants of a choking panic clawing at my throat when she suddenly casts a sidelong glance at Ethan.

It’s a small gesture, almost imperceptible—a mere nod. But he reciprocates it, and in that fleeting moment, it feels like they are sharing a secret, confirming some unspoken agreement, conspiring right before my eyes.

And unfortunately for everyone gathered at this table, I am not blind.

“What was that?” I demand, my voice sharp and insistent.

Mom blinks at me, momentarily taken aback that I caught her. Then, a smile spreads across her face—one that raises every alarm bell in my head. Moms don’t smile like that unless something chaotic is brewing beneath the surface.

“Oh, that?” she replies sweetly, her tone almost too cheerful. “Nothing serious. Your stepfather and I were just chatting earlier. With the gala coming up in two days, we thought it would be a good idea to… widen your options a little.”

“Widen my what?” I stare at her, my confusion mounting.

“Options,” she repeats, her cheerfulness unwavering. “We’re inviting a lot of alphas to the gala this year. You know, just to give you a chance to look around. See if you meet someone you like. You get to make your choice.”

I choke.

Again.

Elijah’s fork freezes mid-air, suspended in a moment of disbelief. His gaze darts sharply between me and Mom, then back to me, as if trying to gauge my reaction. His expression remains unchanged, but the atmosphere around us shifts—tightens, hums with an electric tension, like a wire pulled too taut.

I grab my glass of water, gulping it down as I stare at my mom, as if she’s just suggested I choose a husband from a catalog.

“Mom,” I sputter, my voice shaky, “I don’t— that’s not—”

“It’s not necessary.”

“Nonsense,” she chirps, her enthusiasm unwavering. “You’re eighteen. You’re beautiful. You come from a strong bloodline on both sides. It’s perfectly normal to—”

“Claire,” Ethan interjects, his tone calm and steady, “no one is forcing anything on you. There’s no rush. We just want you to explore, meet new people, and see what you like.”

What I like?

I don’t even know what I like. My mind feels like a jumbled jigsaw puzzle, half the pieces swapped out for ones that don’t fit.

A strange, tight sensation pulses in my chest—an irritating mix of confusion and something darker that I can’t quite name. My eyes dart toward Elijah before I can stop myself.

He’s staring at his plate, an expression etched on his face that’s so intense it could cut through stone.

I quickly look away, my heart doing something foolishly erratic.

“Okay,” I mumble, trying to sound nonchalant. “Sure. Whatever.”

The rest of dinner drags on, each moment stretching painfully. Mom and Ethan chatter about decorations and seating arrangements, while Elijah remains stiff and silent, barely touching his food. I stab at my rice with a ferocity that suggests it has personally offended my family.

By the time I rise to clear my plate, I feel utterly drained.

I walk into the kitchen, rinsing my dish under the cool water, and reach for a towel to dry my hands.

I don’t hear Elijah enter until I catch a glimpse of his reflection in the darkened window above the sink.

“You know,” he says quietly, breaking the silence, “we haven’t finished your gala training.”

My heart leaps, performing acrobatics in my chest. “Huh?”

He leans casually against the counter, but nothing about him feels casual. His shoulders are tense, his jaw clenched, and his voice carries that low, gravelly edge that surfaces when he’s trying too hard to sound composed.

“Wanna take a spin tonight?” he asks, his words laced with an underlying intensity.

A spin.

Training.

My mind flashes with a vivid image: standing in his arms, turning beneath soft lighting, the scent of pine and winter wrapping around us, his hand steady on my waist.

A warmth creeps up my neck, igniting a flutter of something I can’t name.

“That feels… new,” I say slowly, “but also not new.”

His eyes soften, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Good. That means it’s coming back.”

I can’t quite articulate the sensation—a tug in my chest, a feeling that my body remembers things my mind has lost.

I nod, my resolve strengthening. “Okay. Let’s do it.”

We shift the living room table aside because the dining hall feels too formal, and the training room echoes too much. Honestly, I think he just prefers this space. It feels lived-in, warm, with soft lights and wooden floors that invite us to relax.

He stands before me, extending his hand.

I hesitate for just a heartbeat—not because I don’t want to touch him, but because every time our skin meets, something ignites beneath the surface in a way I can’t begin to explain.

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