Chapter 5: The Silent Threat

The headlights flashed through the window plastered over, slicing the black living room with white slashes. Sam stood stock still on the stairs, the glass of water trembling in his hand, its cold rim biting into his fingers. Tires ground over gravel outside, heavy and slow, a low rumble shuddering through the night. His heart hammered, drowning the wind shaking the house. Jake's boots thudded behind him, hard and fast, the gun back in his hand.

"Sam, get down!" Jake hissed, shoving past him. He kicked the front door open, wood crashing against the wall, and marched out onto the porch, gun raised. Sam dropped to a crouch, water sloshing over the rim, soaking his sleeve. He looked over the banister, throat tight in his heart.

Jake stood in porch light, flapping leather jacket, shadow extended and slashing. "Come on out, you bastards!" he shouted, raw-voiced, breaking the stillness. The headlights whipped frantically, tires squealing as the car raced away, engine rumbling down Elm Street. Jake pounded after it, boots pounding on pavement, but the taillights receded swiftly, red spots swallowed up by darkness.

He stopped on the curb, chest heaving, gun still held high, surveying the empty street.Sam shook as he stood, shedding water onto the stairs. The house was too still now, the wind howling the only noise. Jake kicked back inside, slamming the door so hard the frame rattled. His eyes flicked to Sam—dark, rugged, a flash of yellow blazed and disappeared. “Upstairs,” Jake said, voice low, tight. “Now.”

Sam’s grip tightened on the glass. “Who was that?”

He didn’t move, his voice steady despite the quake in his chest.

“Tell me.”

Jake cracked his knuckles, the sound popping loud in the silence.

“I don’t know yet.”

He shoved the gun into his jacket, turning away.

“But they’re not done. Lock your door.”

Sam opened his mouth to argue, but Jake’s back was already to him, broad and shut off, heading for the kitchen.

He wanted to yell, to demand more, but his throat clamped shut.

He climbed the stairs, slow, the wet spot on his sleeve cold against his skin.

His bedroom door loomed ahead—he pushed it open, stepped in, and turned the lock with a sharp click.

He leaned against it, sliding to the floor, the glass clattering beside him.

His breaths came fast, shallow, his hoodie strings twisted tight around his fingers. Those headlights—they’d watched, waited. His mind spun—Jake’s gun, the brick, the guys last night. And that tug in his chest, the one Jake swore was the pact, pulsed harder now, like a rope yanking him toward something he couldn’t see. He pulled his phone from his pocket, hands shaky—1:27 a.m., one bar flickering. A new message glowed on the screen, from an unknown number.

“He can’t protect you forever, little wolf.”

Sam’s breath caught, sharp and cold. Little wolf. The words sank into him, heavy, like they knew him—knew what Jake had said, what he was. His thumb hovered over the screen, trembling. Who sent this? How did they know? He dropped the phone like it burned, watching it bounce once on the carpet.

The room spun, the walls too close, the wind outside too loud.

He yanked his hoodie strings tighter, knotting them under his chin, and curled his knees up, staring at the dark.

Little wolf. Jake called him an omega—werewolf blood, tied to him. But this?

This was someone else, someone out there, watching.

His stomach churned, bile rising.

He grabbed the phone again, rereading the text, the words glowing cruel and quiet.

No reply, no clue—just a threat, hanging there. He shoved it under his pillow with the letter from last night, hiding it like it’d disappear.

Sleep didn’t come. The night stretched thin, the clock ticking to 4:00 a.m. before his eyes finally shut, heavy and raw.

Morning light stabbed through the blinds, gray and weak. Sam jolted awake, tangled in sheets, his hoodie twisted around his chest. The text echoed—little wolf—and Jake’s voice, “They’re not done.” He rubbed his face, hard, trying to shake it off, but it stuck like damp air. He needed answers—real ones, not Jake’s half-truths. He rolled off the bed, grabbing his phone—6:52 a.m., Lisa’s reply: “Good. Quad at 8?” He typed, “Can’t. Later,” and hit send, tossing it onto the mattress.

Class could wait.

He pulled on jeans and sneakers, skipping the shower—his hair was a mess, but he didn’t care.

The house was quiet as he crept downstairs, no Jake, no cigar smoke.

The living room smelled of dust and tape adhesive, the trash bag over the window fluttering soft. He grabbed his bike keys from the counter, pausing at the basement door. Jake’s office was down there—locked, usually, but he had to try.

He fished a hairpin from a kitchen drawer—Mom taught him to pick locks once, laughing as he fumbled with a shed padlock. The memory stung, but he shook it off, heading down. The basement stairs creaked, the air cold and thick with mildew. He reached the office door—wood, scratched, a heavy bolt glaring at him. He bent the pin, sliding it into the lock, twisting slow. His hands shook, the metal scraping loud in the silence. A click—too loud—snapped through, and the bolt slid free.

He pushed the door open, heart thudding.

The office was a mess—desk piled with papers, a cracked leather chair, cigar stubs in a tray.

Shelves sagged with boxes, dust coating everything.

A single bulb hung overhead, flickering as he flipped the switch.

Sam shut the door behind him, soft, and moved to the desk.

He rummaged through papers—bills, maps, scribbled notes in Jake’s messy scrawl.

Nothing about pacts, nothing about wolves. He yanked open a drawer—pens, a lighter, a rusty knife. His fingers brushed something hard—a journal, old, leather-bound, tucked under a stack of receipts.

He pulled it out, the cover worn soft, edges frayed. His breath hitched as he flipped it open—yellowed pages, ink smudged but readable. “Alpha binds omega,” the first line read, same as the letter. His stomach flipped. He turned pages fast—sketches of wolves, runes, words like “blood ritual” and “eternal bond.” One entry, dated decades back, caught his eye: “The omega strengthens the alpha, ties the pack. Power for loyalty, sealed in blood.” Sam chewed his nail, tasting blood again. It matched the pact—Jake wasn’t lying about that part.

He flipped deeper, words blurring—“control,” “submission,” “marked by the snake.” The tattoo flashed in his mind, glowing green. Another page: “Enemies watch. The pact draws them.” His chest tightened—little wolf, the text. Was that what this was? Someone after the pact, after him? He kept going, hands trembling, until a name stopped him cold, written in Jake’s sharp handwriting.

“Clara.”

Sam’s mother. His knees buckled, and he gripped the desk, the journal shaking in his hand. Clara. Her name stared up at him, underlined twice, alone on the page. No date, no explanation—just there, like a ghost. His throat closed, a lump choking him. Mom—soft voice, warm hands, gone three years—tied to this? To werewolves, to Jake’s messed-up world? He flipped the page, desperate, but it was blank. The next too. Just her name, dangling like a thread he couldn’t pull.

Footsteps thudded upstairs—slow, heavy. Sam’s head snapped up, pulse racing. Jake. He shoved the journal back into the drawer, slamming it shut, papers scattering. The hairpin—he grabbed it, fumbling at the lock, twisting fast. It clicked as the basement door creaked open above. “Sam?” Jake’s voice, gruff, carried down.

Sam bolted from the office, shutting the door soft, and ducked behind a stack of boxes. His breath held, shallow, as Jake’s boots hit the stairs, one by one. The light flicked on, shadows stretching. Sam peeked—Jake stood halfway down, shirtless again, hair wild, a new cigar between his fingers. He scanned the room, eyes narrowing, then moved toward the office.

Sam’s heart stopped. If Jake saw the lock, the mess—he was dead. But Jake paused, cracking his knuckles, and turned back up, muttering, “Damn kid.” The door shut behind him, footsteps fading.

Sam exhaled, shaky, sliding to the floor. Clara. His mom’s name burned in his head, a question he couldn’t answer. What did she know? What did she do? He clutched his hoodie strings, twisting them tight. The pact, the snake, the text—none of it made sense, but it was bigger than Jake now. And someone out there knew it too.