Chapter 5: The Blood Oath Tightens

Leo awoke to searing heat seeping into his chest, unyielding and hard, as if a fire was scorching his ribs from the inside out. He leapt upright on Ezra's small dorm bed, the thin mattress creaking under him, and tossed the torn sheets aside—cotton abraded against his sweat-slicked legs. His breathing was rapid, wheezy, exhaling in the dim light of a desk lamp that Ezra had forgotten to turn off, its yellow glow spilling over scattered sketchpads and tubes of paint. He smoothed his damp hair—sticky with sweat, no longer rain now—and looked at his phone: 6:13 a.m., screen glaring harsh against the pre-dawn gloom seeping through the window. Rain trickled faintly on the glass, a light rain from the night before's storm, and a gull screamed from the Sound, a faraway, mournful sound.

He threw his legs over the edge of the bed, boots thudding on the hardwood floor, and grasped his Zippo on the nightstand—metal cold against his sweating palm. Flipping it open, he caught a quick light for a cigarette with a snap, the flame burning orange and fleetingly, and blew out slow puffs of smoke, trying to quiet the shake in his hands. The heat wasn't just exhaustion—or the whiskey still warm in his system—it pulsed deeper, living, curling under his skin like something alive. Marco's curse scent clung to him—cigar and leather—sealed in his jacket from that shove on the docks, that fight in the rain. He brushed his sleeve, leather cracking, and the paper in his pocket crinkled—crimson throbbed weak through the fabric, a beat he couldn't shake.

"Fuck," he swore, voice rough, kicking the bedframe—wood creaked low. He strode, feet standing, boots scuffling paint-speckled boards—smoking more, thick curls swirling to the ceiling. His head throbbed, a pain beating sharper behind his eyes, and he rubbed his temples—pressing in hard—but it wouldn't ease. Flashes hit—Marco's eyes flashing dark onto his, that grin cutting through the rain, the parchment glowing red between them—alpha bonds alpha. He kicked a chair—wood scraped sharp—and pulled out a beer from Ezra's tiny fridge, slicing it open with his knife—metal clanged soft. He downed half in one swallow, cold sting down his esophagus, but that never doused the fire inside.

Door creaked—Ezra stepped in, scraping paint off his hands on his jeans, habit Leo clocked every time the kid shifted. He entered with a paper bag—grease-stained, reeking of fried dough—placed it on the desk, hazel eyes flashing up, gentle but cutting. "You look like hell," he said, leaning forward, low but cutting through the fog. He extracted a donut from the bag, tore it in half—sugar crumbled off—and offered it, paint still smudged on his knuckles.

Leo stubbed his cigarette on the desk—ember spat out in a burn mark—and grasped the piece, crumbs scraping at his jacket. "Hold it," he snarled, biting into the dough—sweetness fought with the acrid smoke on his tongue. He leaned against the wall, boots scuffling, and Ezra sat on the bed—mattress sagged—too close, too watchful. "What's chasing you?

Ezra leaned in, low voice, hazel eyes catching the lamplight—glow, pulling at something yielding Leo wasn't willing to articulate. "Nothing," Leo lied, boot kicking the desk leg—wood creaked again—and dumped the last beer, thumping the bottle down—glass hitting floor. Temperature raged more hot, flaring higher on his back, and he cursed, fist pinching to his chest—fingers tearing through his shirt. Ezra remained still grasping firmly—too hard—on his arm, holding him upright. "Squeeze—talk," he commanded, fingers clenched but soft, paint-stained fingers icy on Leo's hot flesh.

Heat faded—merely a flutter—but it remained, coiled hard, and Marco's stupid grin flashed again—too intimate, too intense.

"Back off," Leo snarled, stepping back—boots scraped across floor—and lit another cigarette—Zippo snapped hard. Puffed on fast, walking again—room felt tighter, walls closing in—and the headache stabbed deeper, eyes blurring at the edges. Ezra didn't blink, merely stared—quiet, unmoving—damn him for it. Grabbed his phone—buzz from Vito—"West secure—check in." Rolled back with—"Docks hit—Gia—watch east"—stuck it in pocket—parchment rustled, pulse of light glowing brighter—hottter—damn it.

Sleep had been a disaster—dreams creeping in after that wake-up shock at Ezra's. He'd gone at it hard, but it wasn't sleep—dark rooms, cigar smoke thick, Marco coming in close—silk shirt slipping, calloused hands—grabbing, pulling—Leo's belt snapping, teeth scraping—heat shooting wild, raw—release slamming sharp, wet—then blood, claws tearing—Marco's chest splitting open—red soaking silk—Leo's hands glistening—screaming—jolting up—damp with sweat—damn it—why Marco—why now? He kicked the wall—plaster cracked weak—and blew more smoke, trying to shake it.

The door banged open—Vito stormed in, grizzled face wet from drizzle, flannel soaked dark. He grabbed a beer from the fridge—cap popped loud—downed a swig, wiping his mouth with his sleeve—stubble glinted. “You’re a mess, kid,” he said, voice gravelly, nodding at Leo’s shaking hands. He stepped close—boots thudding—grabbed the parchment from Leo’s pocket—crumpling paper crinkled loud—and unfolded it, crimson glowing sharp under the lamp. “This—oath’s alive—Marco’s in your blood now.”

Leo snatched it away—paper tore softly—and kicked a crate that Ezra used to store stuff in—wood cracked. "Bullshit," he muttered, lighting another cigarette—Zippo clicked—smoking smoke fast. "He's nothing—Gia's the danger." Vito leaned on the desk—glass rang as he set his beer down—and looked at him hard, gray eyes cutting. "Oath don't care—alpha to alpha—break it, you bleed—both of you—or worse."

"Worse?" Leo spat, flipping his knife—blade glinted in the light—and stepped forward—boots scraped. Heat flared—sharp, searing—chest constricted, lungs gasping for air. He staggered—knife fell soft—Vito caught his arm—grasp like iron. "This—side effects—resisting kills slow," Vito said, voice low, even—too damn level. "Fever, dreams—claws'll come—Marco's got it too—bet he's covering."

Leo tore loose—brushed his jacket—and grasped the parchment—crimson throbbed hot in his hands. "Then set it free," he said, voice coarse—smoke drifted thick. Vito shook his head—gripped his beer—drank a swig. "Can't—old blood—deep magic—your father knew—never told you." Leo kicked the crate again—wood cracked sharp—and paced—boots scraping—head pounding—Marco's laugh ringing—damn him—damn this.

Ezra stepped closer—quiet—grabbed a rag, wiped paint off his hands—habit again. “You’re burning up,” he said, voice soft, reaching out—fingers brushed Leo’s arm—cool, steady. The heat dulled—not gone, but quieter—and Leo froze—pulse jumping—not hate, not rage—something softer—damn it—why Ezra too? He pulled back—lit another cigarette—Zippo snapped—puffing smoke to cover it. “I’m fine,” he muttered, kicking the bedframe—wood groaned.

"Lie better," Ezra instructed him, hazel eyes unblinking—too intense—picked up a sketchpad, opened it—pencil scraped soft as he drew—Leo's scars, his lighter—too close—too intense. Vito watched—beer clinked as he set it down—gruff voice cutting in. "Gia's with Serpents—Nick's crew—east is a disaster—Marco's stuck—oath's pulling you in—go to him—or it tears you apart."

Leo spat on the floor—spit on landed wood—and put away his knife—flipped it—slipped it into his belt. "He's a competitor—fuck the oath," he growled, voice low—raw—puffing smoke—heat flared again—sharp—head splitting—vision swimming. He staggered—Ezra caught him—hands steady—paint smudged on Leo's arm. "Sit," Ezra ordered, guiding him to the bed—mattress sagged—cool fingers brushing his forehead—heat subsided—faint—damn him—why'd it work?

Vito grabbed his phone—tapped it—screen glowed—text vibrated—"East hit—Marco's hurt—Gia's play." Popped it back in—grabbed his beer—drank the rest—bottle clinked hollow. "Your call, kid—oath's no game—choose quick." Went out—door slammed—wood shook—rain beat on—constant—unyielding.

Leo leaned back—head hit the wall—thudded soft—puffed smoke slow—Ezra sat close—sketchpad rustling—hazel eyes flicking up. “You’re not alone,” he said, voice quiet—too damn gentle—fingers brushing Leo’s wrist—cool—steady—heat dulled more—pulse jumped—soft—not Marco’s fire—damn it—why both? He brushed his jacket—parchment crinkled—crimson pulsed—hot—alive—Marco’s scent lingered—cigar smoke—leather—burning still.

Sleep clawed back—fast—dark—dreams hit—Marco's loft—rain-streaking windowpane—cigar smoke thick—Marco yanked him—shirt torn—claws ripped—blood sprayed—red—hot—Leo's hands transformed—half-out claws—digging—Marco's chest—silk soaked—screaming—then Ezra—quiet—paint-stained fingers—brushing—cool—calm—Leo's claws retreated—heat vanished—Marco's laughter—low—keen—bled into Ezra's voice—"Stay"—jolt awake—bolted upright—sweat beaded—breath hitched.

He flexed his hands—half-exposed claws—black tips shimmering—hurt—skin raw—smell of Marco lingered—cigar smoke—leather—from the dockyards—damn it—remained on him. He stamped at the bedclothes—cotton bunched—took up his phone—6:47 a.m.—Marco's text buzzed—"West—meet—hurt." He rolled one cigarette—Zippo cracked open—exhaling smoke—Ezra stirred—slowly opening his hazel eyes—soft—unwavering—"Leo?"—voice cut through—damn him—damn this—whose pull—whose blood—whose need—shredded him—next?