Chapter 9: Jake's Jealous Anger

Homecoming was grim, the drive between Sam and Jake thick with unspoken force. Sam rode the bike gripping the handlebars, fever boiling hotter, quivering legs straining to push alongside Jake's truck. Alley still clung to him—Nick's arms, his menacing grin, "Every wolf's gonna want a piece." And Jake—springing in to save him, eyes yellow as a cat in the dark, following him without a word. Sam's chest ached, that pull thudding raw, holding him to Jake as rage seethed beneath his skin. The truck's engine growled deep, the headlights cutting through twilight, Elm Street dark and quiet.

Sam dropped the bike on the porch, the clatter ringing against the quiet of the house. His hoodie clung to him, sweaty, strings untied. Fever hadn't broken—his bones ached, his head throbbed, and every scent hit him: wet grass, the neighbor's dog, Jake's leather and smoke as he climbed out of the truck. Sam fumbled with his keys, the lock catching, and pushed the door open, needing room, needing air.

Jake lagged behind, boots thudding hard, slamming the back door shut. The living room stank of stale cigar and dust, the trash bag over the busted window flapping in the wind. Sam turned around, letting his backpack fall, but Jake was already there—too close, standing up straight, his dark eyes blazing with something feral. "Who was he?" Jake growled, his voice low, cracking his knuckles hard.

Sam's breath hitched, suspended. "Who?" His voice quivered, the fever surging, stinging his skin. Jake's scent overwhelmed him—wild, loamy, suffocating—tying that pull into a knot.

"Don't play dumb," Jake snapped, advancing, his huge chest filling. "The guy in school—the guy you snuck out to meet." His nostrils flared, jaw muscles clenched, yellow flashing in his eyes. "I saw you.".

Sam’s stomach dropped—Ethan. Jake had followed him to the quad, watched him with Ethan under the tree. “You’re spying on me now?” he shot back, heat flooding his face. “That’s none of your business!”

Jake's hand shot out, holding Sam against the wall by his shoulder, the wood creaking under the pressure. "It is my business," he growled, voice dropping to a rumble. "He's not what you think he is, Sam." His grip tightened, not bruising but firm, his breath warm against Sam's face. "You don't know what you're getting yourself into.".

Sam's heart hammered, fever raging, Jake's touch burning through his hoodie. "Let me go!" He shoved Jake's chest—solid muscle under thin fabric—but Jake didn't budge, eyes locked with Sam's, dark and wolflike. Air vibrated, thick with strain, Sam's scent changing—sugar, stinging, something else—engulfing the room. Jake's nostrils flared for a second again, his grip relaxing, and Sam felt it—Jake wasn't just crazy. He was affected, hanging on a ledge.

"Whaddaya mean?" Sam rasped, voice cracking. "Ethan's just a friend—he's not—" He stopped, Ethan's words burning in his mind—"Things can sneak up on you." Did Jake know something? His head spun, the fever and Jake's warmth clashing, making him lightheaded.

Jake's hand crept higher, his fingers rough but trembling, as if he fought himself. "You smell it, don't you?" he growled, his voice raw, husky. "It's killing me." His thumb shoved Sam's chin upward, angling his head back, their eyes trapped—yellow blazing hot, then faltering. "He'll smell it too—every damn wolf will.".

Sam's breath caught, his skin burning where Jake's hand moved. That pull closed in, fierce and hot, pulling him toward Jake even as he hated it. "Get off," he growled, softer than he meant to, attempting to shove Jake's wrist away. His scent—his scent—was making this happen? The fever, the aching, the way Jake's eyes grew darker—it snapped into place, sick and real. Omega instincts, rising up, pulling Jake towards him.

Jake's grip clenched, his face inches from Sam's, breathing rough. "You don't get it, do you?" His voice shook, a mix of rage and something else, something Sam couldn't pinpoint. His thumb caressed Sam's jaw, slow, nearly gentle, and Sam's heart raced, a shiver racing through him. Jake's restraint broke—his body pressed in, hard and warm, the wall digging into Sam's back. For a moment, it looked like Jake might—might—

And Jake shoved him aside, pushing hard, Sam colliding onto the couch. Jake spun about, his fist descending into the coffee table, wood splintering as it burst loudly. Gun and can flew to the floor, beneath the couch they tumbled. "Damn it!" he roared, cracking knuckles, shoulders bulging. "You don't get it!

Sam caught himself, chest pounding, the fever pulsing with his heartbeat. “Get what?” he yelled, voice hoarse. “You’re freaking out over Ethan—why? What’s he to you?” He rubbed his jaw, Jake’s touch lingering, hot and confusing. “Tell me something—anything!”

Jake whirled, black eyes chaotic, fists balled. "He's trouble," he growled, low and bitter. "Trouble more than you can imagine." He cracked his knuckles again, the sound sharp, and snatched his jacket from the couch, slinging it over his shoulder. "Stay away from him, Sam. I mean it."

Sam’s legs shook, but he stood straighter, glaring. “You don’t own me,” he spat, the tug flaring hot, defiant. “You can’t tell me who to see.”

Jake’s face twisted, a snarl curling his lips. “You’re mine to protect,” he said, voice dropping, possessive and raw. “That’s the pact—you don’t get a choice.” He stormed to the kitchen, boots thudding, leaving Sam reeling.

Sam fell onto the couch, gasping uneven, the splintered table looming over him. His jaw ached where Jake had gripped it, his scent still thick in the air—leather, smoke, that wild edge. The fever raged, his body aching, and he folded his arms around his knees, tightening his hoodie strings. Driving me crazy, Jake had said. Sam had felt it too—that snap, that pull, teetering on the edge of them. But Ethan—why him? Why did Jake care so much?

He pulled out his phone from his pocket—9:47 p.m., no messages. The journal and note page lay in his backpack, questions piling up without answers. Clara, little wolf, Nick's fixation, now Ethan—Jake was holding something back, something enormous, something which made him flip. Sam's chest tightened, the pull throbbing, holding him with Jake even so. They didn't like it—hated him—but wouldn't let go.

Downstairs, the refrigerator closed with a crash, Jake low—cussing, maybe a telephone call. Sam got up, unsteady, and edged toward the stairs, peering down. Jake walked the kitchen, cigar smoldering once more, smoke curling up. His face was determined, his eyes distant, but his fists were still curled, knuckles white. He wasn't just angry—he was shaken, beyond Sam had ever seen.

Sam backed away, locking his bedroom door, the sound ringing out in the silence. He fell onto the bed, pulling out the note—"You took what's mine." Ethan's calm tone echoed—"Things can sneak up on you." Jake's rage didn't fit—why Ethan? What did he know that Jake wouldn't share? The fever pulsed, his scent shifting once more, sweet and bitter, filling the room. He buried his face in his hands, hot breath against his palms. Jake was holding back—something from Ethan, about him—and it was killing him.

Outside, the wind was howling fiercely, rattling the blinds. Sam's phone buzzed—Ethan: "You okay? Looked rough today." Sam stared, thumbs suspended, the pull smoldering bright. Jake's snarl echoed in his head—"He's not what you think." What was he hiding? Why did Ethan push him like this? The questions choked him, unsaid, as the night descended, dark and smothering.