Chapter 6: The Aftermath of the Attack

The house hummed with tension the next day, a coiled spring ready to be sprung. Sam stood in his bedroom window, peering through the blinds at the gray morning light. The garbage bag that covered the broken living room window flapped in the breeze, a feeble bandage on a wound that would not heal. His hoodie hung loose, strings dangling untied for once, his brown hair a tangled mess from restless sleep. The journal’s page—Clara—burned in his mind, but the text, “little wolf,” and those headlights last night twisted it tighter. He chewed his nail, the raw edge stinging, and watched the street. No cars, no shadows—just Elm Street, quiet and cold.

Downstairs, the TV muttered low, a news anchor droning about traffic. Sam’s stomach growled—he hadn’t eaten since yesterday—but food could wait. Answers couldn’t. He grabbed his phone from the bed—8:14 a.m., no new texts—and shoved it into his pocket.

The butter knife stayed in his desk drawer, a cold comfort he didn’t need yet.

He unlocked his door, the click loud in the stillness, and crept down the stairs, socks silent on the wood.

Jake sprawled on the couch, leather jacket slung over the armrest, a fresh cigar smoldering between his fingers.

Smoke curled up, gray and thick, blending with the stale air.

His dark hair stuck up, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and his broad chest rose slow under a worn T-shirt. The gun rested on the coffee table, a black weight next to an empty beer can. He didn’t look up as Sam hit the landing, eyes fixed on the screen, but his knuckles cracked—sharp, deliberate—a warning in the quiet.

Sam stopped at the bottom step, gripping the banister.

“We need to talk,” he said, voice steady despite the knot in his gut.

Jake puffed the cigar, smoke drifting between them.

“Not now,” he muttered, low and rough. “Go back upstairs.”

“No.” Sam stepped into the living room, boots scuffing the floor where glass still glittered in the corners. “I’m done waiting. Who’s after me?”

Jake’s head turned, slow, his dark eyes narrowing. “What’d I say last night?” He tapped ash into the tray, grinding it out. “Stay out of it.”

Sam’s chest tightened, heat rising. “A brick comes through our window, headlights watch us, and you pull a gun—stay out of it doesn’t cut it!” He crossed his arms, planting his feet. “Tell me who they are.”

Jake stood, towering over the couch, his shadow stretching across the room.

“You don’t need to know.”

He cracked his knuckles again, louder this time, and stepped closer.

“Just stay in line, Sam. It’s worse than you think.”

“Stay in line?” Sam’s voice rose, sharp.

“I’m not your dog!”

He shoved a hand through his hair, tugging hard.

“Someone’s out there—last night, the brick, that text. They called me little wolf. They know what I am—what you say I am. Who are they?” Jake’s jaw clenched, a muscle twitching.

“Text?” His eyes flashed yellow, quick and gone, locking onto Sam’s. “What text?”

Sam froze, cursing himself. He hadn’t meant to spill that. “Doesn’t matter,” he snapped, dodging. “Point is, I’m not safe, and you’re hiding stuff. The pact, your tattoo, now this—who’s after me?” Jake inched closer, too close, the stench of tobacco and leather thick in Sam's nostrils. "You're mine to protect," he growled, voice low and claiming. "That's all you need to know. The danger's bigger than you get—stay in your position, and I'll handle it."

Sam's skin crawled, that tug at his chest a fire. "I'm not yours," he barked back, stepping backward, his shoulder bumping off the wall. "You don't get to dictate what I know. Tell me!"

Jake's hand smacked out, catching onto Sam's shoulder, firm but not vicious. "You're way in over your head, kid." His eyes burned, black and feral. "You don't wanna know what's out there—yet."

Sam tensed away from him, working the tension from his shoulder, heat lingering where Jake's had pressed. "Then when?" Then when they break in once more? Then when they—" He fell silent, his head reeling with flashes. "You gave them chase last night. Who were they?"

Jake whirled away, cracking his knuckles, the sound like gunfire in the small room. "I don't know yet," he snarled, grabbing his cigar off the tray. "But they're not giving up." He pulled hard on it, smoke clouding his face, and reclined on the couch. "Go get something to eat. You look like crap."

Sam stood there, chest heaving, wanting to push, to yell, but Jake's wall was up—thick, impenetrable. He spun around, storming into the kitchen, the linoleum cold under his socks. He yanked open a cabinet, pulled out a cereal box, and shook it—nothing. He slammed it down, the thud echoing, and leaned against the counter, gasping. Jake wasn't giving him anything—just demands, as always. But that text, the brick—he couldn't just sit here blind.

His eyes flicked to the living room. Jake's jacket flung over the arm of the couch, crumpled, something in the pocket. The note from the brick—he'd seen Jake shove it into there last night, hiding it. Sam's heart started racing. He glanced at Jake—still on the couch, staring at the TV, curl of cigar smoke rising. Quiet as he was able to be, Sam crept back into the room, pounding heart clear enough Jake couldn't help but hear it. He inched a little closer to the jacket, fingers tracing over the leather, and stuck his hand into the pocket.

Paper crunched—bunched up, gritty. He withdrew it, a little piece attached to a clump of brick dust, and unfolded it fast, keeping Jake in the corner of his eye. The words scrawled in black ink hit him like a punch:

“You took what’s mine. Give him up, or I’ll take him back.”

Sam’s breath stopped, the note shaking in his hand. Him. Who? Him—Sam? His mind spun—little wolf, the headlights, now this. Someone thought he belonged to them, not Jake. Took him from where? From who? His stomach dropped, cold and heavy. The pact, the tattoo, his mom’s name in that journal—what was he caught in?

Jake shifted on the couch, cracking his knuckles.

Sam shoved the note into his hoodie pocket, stepping back quick, his socks sliding on the floor.

Jake didn’t turn, didn’t see, but the air felt tighter, like he knew anyway. Sam backed toward the stairs, the note burning against his chest. He needed to think, to figure this out—alone.

“Gonna shower,” he mumbled, not waiting for a reply, and bolted up, two steps at a time. He locked his bedroom door, the click loud, and sank onto the bed, pulling the note out. “You took what’s mine.” His fingers traced the words, smudged but clear. Jake didn’t write this—someone else did, someone angry, someone close. The text—“He can’t protect you forever”—clicked with it, pieces of a puzzle he couldn’t see yet.

He grabbed his phone—8:32 a.m., Lisa’s text unanswered. He typed, “Quad at noon. Need to talk,” and hit send, watching the bar hold steady. His mom’s name flashed in his head—Clara—from the journal. Did she know this? Was she part of it? He tugged a strand of hair from his hood, twisting it tight, the note crumpled in his other hand. Jake wasn’t telling him squat, but this—this was proof something bigger was out there, hunting him.

A thud downstairs—Jake moving, boots heavy. Sam stuffed the note under his pillow with the journal page, heart racing. He couldn’t stay here, not with Jake dodging and danger closing in. But where could he go? Ethan’s face popped up—green eyes, calm voice—but he pushed it away. Not yet. He needed more—answers, not friends.

The house creaked, wind rattling the blinds. Sam stood, pacing, the note’s words looping in his head. Give him up. Who was him? Why did someone think he was stolen? His chest ached, that tug flaring again, tying him to Jake—or something else. He stopped at the window, peering out—no cars, no lights, just gray sky and bare trees. But they’d be back. He knew it.

Jake’s voice drifted up, muffled, talking to someone—phone, maybe. Sam pressed his ear to the floor, catching fragments—“He’s fine,” and “Not yet.” Then silence, boots thudding again. Sam pulled back, breath shaky. Jake was hiding more than the note, more than the pact. And whatever it was, it started long before him—maybe with Clara.

Who am I to them? The question hung, unanswered, as the wind howled louder outside.