Chapter 4: Night of Unease

The house turned into a prison with the brick shattering the window. Sam hovered at the top of the stairs, his knuckles pale as he gripped the banister. Jake cleaned up the last shards of glass on the lower floor, the broom howling on the floor. The TV was blasting in the background, a car chase yowling through the speakers, but it could not drown out the pounding in Sam's chest. Shadows played on the outside, the wind howling through the broken windowpane, carrying with it a cold that crept down his spine. He chewed his nail, tasting the bitter flavor of where he'd bitten too deep. Jake's gun rested on the counter now, its black metal reflecting the kitchen light—a silent warning that made everything feel too real.

"Upstairs, Sam," Jake snarled again, not looking up. His voice was gruff, as if he had been smoking too many cigars this evening. "Lock your door and don't stir."

Sam’s jaw tightened. “I’m not a kid.” He took a step down, boots heavy on the wood. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Jake paused, leaning on the broom, his broad shoulders stiff. “I said stay out of it.” He cracked his knuckles—loud, sharp pops that echoed in the small room—then grabbed the gun, tucking it back into his jacket. “You don’t need to know.”

“Stop it!” Sam snapped, descending another step. “You don’t get to decide that. Something’s out there—those guys, that brick. I’m not hiding like some scared puppy.”

Jake's head came up, the eyes flashing yellow for a second before returning to dark brown. "You do what I say, or else you'll be hurt." He strode across to the window, staring out through the splintered opening. "They're not screwing around, Sam."."Who's they?" Sam crouched over, his feet on the landing. "The boys from last night? The sedan guys? Come on and tell me!"

Jake spun, boots crunching glass. “Enough!” He pointed at the stairs, his voice a growl. “Up. Now. I’m not asking.”

Sam didn’t budge. His heart raced, but he held Jake’s stare, the air thick between them. “You don’t own me,” he said, quieter this time, each word sharp. “Whatever that pact says, I’m not yours.”

Jake's face tightened, something flickering in his eyes—anger, maybe, or something softer. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, turning away from the window. "Lock your door," he growled, quieter now, almost exhausted. "Please.".

Sam stopped short, the please catching him off guard. Jake never mentioned that. He tugged on his hoodie strings and wrapped them in a fat knot and then headed back up, banging his bedroom door shut behind him. The lock clicked with a hard thump. He slumped against it, wheezing, the butter knife still lodged in his desk drawer where he left it this morning. He didn't grab it—didn't need to yet—but the sensation lingered in his mind.

The house creaked all around him, wind hissing through the creaky joints. He slid to the floor, knees up, and pulled his phone from his pocket—6:47 p.m., Lisa’s text still unanswered: “You alive?” He typed back, “Yeah, barely,” and hit send, watching the bar flicker. It went through, barely. He dropped the phone beside him, staring at the ceiling. The letter under his pillow burned in his thoughts—blood oath, alpha binds omega. And Jake’s tattoo, that glowing snake. What did it all mean? Who was out there, and why did they want him?

Sleep wouldn’t come. Sam tossed on his bed, the sheets tangling around his legs. The TV downstairs cut off, leaving silence that pressed against his ears. He replayed everything—the brick, Jake’s gun, that look in the hall when Jake saw him naked. His face heated up, a flush creeping down his neck. Jake’s eyes had lingered, dark and heavy, and that bulge—Sam squeezed his eyes shut, shoving the image away. It wasn’t right. Jake was his stepdad, the guy who’d signed papers when Mom died. But that tug in his chest, the one Jake swore was the pact, wouldn’t let go. It twisted him up—anger, shame, and something hotter he didn’t want to name.

Hours ticked by, the clock glowing 1:13 a.m. His throat was dry, scratchy. He needed water. Sam rolled off the bed, unlocking the door quiet as he could.

The hall was dark, the house still.

He crept downstairs, socks silent on the wood, avoiding the creaky spots he’d memorized over years.

The living room smelled of cigar smoke and dust, the broken window taped with a trash bag Jake must’ve rigged up.

It fluttered in the breeze, a soft rustle in the quiet.

In the kitchen, Sam froze.

Jake stood by the counter, shirtless, his leather jacket slung over a chair.

The dim light from the fridge cast shadows over his chest—broad, muscled, a faint scar curling down his side.

His dark hair stuck up, messy from running his hands through it, and he held a beer can, condensation dripping onto the linoleum.

He didn’t turn, didn’t hear Sam yet, just stared at the wall like it held answers.

Sam’s breath caught. He should’ve backed off, gone upstairs, but his feet wouldn’t move. Jake occupied the room—too big, too close, even from across the kitchen. The tattoo on his forearm glowed faint, that double-headed snake green in the darkness. Sam's eyes tracked it, then snapped up as Jake shifted, the beer can clattering on the counter.

"What're you doing down here?" Jake's voice was low, rough, cutting through the stillness. He turned, and Sam was caught in the doorway. His eyes scanned him—hoodie, jeans, bare feet—then fastened on, dark and impenetrable.

Sam swallowed, his mouth dry despite the water he'd sought out. "Thirsty," he said, heading to the sink. He opened the cabinet, grabbing a glass to fill it at the faucet, all too aware of Jake's eyes on him. The water was cold, but it didn't do a thing to cool the flush searing his skin. He drank fast, the glass clinking as he set it down on the counter.

"You shouldn't be awake," Jake said, cracking his knuckles. The sound sliced through the quiet, and Sam flinched. "It isn't safe."

Sam wiped his mouth on his sleeve and faced him. "You keep saying that. But you won't tell me why." His voice shook, but he persisted. "The brick, the gun, those men—what's after us?"

Jake stepped in closer, too close, the air between them tightening. "You need to listen to me, Sam." His voice was low, threatening, a snarl beneath it. "Or you're gonna get yourself killed."

Sam's back was to the counter, nowhere to go. "Quit treating me like I'm some kind of property you own!" he cried, louder than he meant to. "I'm not yours—I'm not some thing you get to lock up and control!"

Jake's hand shot out, grasping Sam's wrist, his grip tight but not bone-crushing. "You don't know," he snarled, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You already do." His eyes flared, yellow gleaming for a moment, and Sam's breath hitched. Jake's chest was inches from his face, heat radiating from him, the scent of leather and smoke thick in Sam's nostrils. His thumb was on Sam's pulse, steady, and Sam's heart thudded against his ribs, loudly enough Jake should be able to hear it.

"Let go," Sam said, tugging on his arm, but his voice cracked, less authoritative than he meant. Jake's grip eased, but he didn't step back, his eyes pinning Sam in place. The kitchen was too small, the silence too loud, the space between them vibrating with something Sam couldn't name—anger, fear, that pesky attraction he hated.

Jake's jaw tightened, as though he was biting back words. "You don't know what's out there," he said finally, low and gravelly. "What they'd do to you."

"Then tell me!" Sam tore his wrist free, rubbing it, his skin crawling where Jake's fingers had grasped. "Stop hiding it!

Jake cracked his knuckles again, the sound sharp, then turned away, grabbing his beer. “Go back to bed,” he muttered, shoulders slumping. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Sam stood, chest heaving, aching to shout, to push, but Jake's back was a wall—closed off, done. He grabbed his glass, water slopping, and headed for the stairs, the floor cold underfoot. He didn't look round, but he could sense Jake's eyes on him, dark and weighted, until he reached the hall.

Halfway up, headlights blazed outside, cutting through the blinds in vivid slashes. Sam stilled, glass slipping in his hand. The light inched slow across the living room, then stabilized, burning through the taped-up window. Tires crunched gravel, low and near—someone out there was waiting. His heartbeat accelerated, drowning out the wind. Jake's boots thundered behind him, fast, the gun back in his hand.

"Sam, get down!" Jake hissed, but Sam was frozen, gazing at the light. Who was it—and why now?