Chapter 7: A Warning from the Cobras

The college quad buzzed with midday noise—students laughing, coffee cups steaming, a frisbee sailing overhead. Sam slouched on a bench, his hoodie pulled tight, strings knotted under his chin. His backpack sat heavy beside him, the note from the brick—“You took what’s mine”—tucked inside with the journal page. His green eyes scanned the crowd, restless, the morning’s fight with Jake still simmering in his chest. The house was a war zone now—broken glass, secrets, that tug he couldn’t shake. He chewed his nail, the raw edge stinging, and tried to focus on the history notes in his lap. They blurred—Clara, little wolf, headlights. Lisa plopped down next to him, her bubblegum crunching noisily enough that strangers glared. "You're late," she announced, tossing back her hair, her hand clutching a coffee cup. "Thought we agreed on noon."

Sam shrugged and shut his notebook. "Was held up." He did not look at her, his eyes scanning the street. There were two men there, against a lamppost—dark jackets, sunglasses, too still in campus activity. His stomach twisted. They weren’t students, weren’t locals. One lit a cigarette, the flame flaring, and tilted his head toward Sam.

“You’re acting weird again,” Lisa said, popping another bubble. “What’s with the jumpy vibe? You’ve been off all week.”

“It’s nothing,” Sam muttered, tugging his hood lower. “Just tired.” The men didn’t move, but he felt their eyes, sharp and heavy, cutting through the crowd. His pulse quickened—little wolf, the note. Were they part of it?

Lisa crossed her arms, chewing faster. “Bull. You’re hiding something. Family stuff again?” She leaned closer, voice dropping. “Come on, Sam. I’m your friend—spill.”

He forced a smile, thin and fake. “Just Jake being Jake. No big deal.” He couldn’t tell her—pacts, werewolves, bricks through windows. She’d think he’d lost it. “I’ll figure it out.”

She sighed, blowing a bubble that popped loud. “Fine, be mysterious. But you owe me coffee tomorrow—no excuses.” She stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder, and waved.

“See ya.”

“Later,” Sam said, watching her weave through the crowd.

His eyes flicked back across the street—the men were still there, one tapping his phone, the other staring straight at him.

Sam grabbed his backpack, heart thudding, and headed for his bike.

Class could wait—he needed out.

The ride home was fast, wind biting his face as he pedaled down Elm Street. The sky hung low, clouds thick and gray, a storm brewing. His legs burned, but he didn’t slow, the men’s dark jackets stuck in his head. Were they the ones from last night? The sedan, the headlights? He swerved around a pothole, cursing under his breath, and glanced back—no one, just empty road.

But the itch wouldn’t leave, a prickle down his spine.

Night fell heavy, the house quiet when Sam rolled his bike onto the porch. Jake’s truck wasn’t in the driveway—out again, probably. The trash bag over the window fluttered, a weak shield against the wind howling outside. Sam dropped his keys on the counter, the jingle sounding out in the silence, and kicked off his sneakers. His phone buzzed—Lisa, "You good?" He texted, "Yeah," and shoved it back into his pocket. The note and journal seared in his pocket, but he wasn't ready for them yet—too tired, too wired.

He opened the refrigerator, grabbed a soda, the cold can soothing his shaking hands, and went to retrieve the mail—ordinary, routine, something to calm his nerves. The street was dark, streetlights buzzing softly, yellow puddles on the sidewalk. He opened the mailbox—junk mail, bills—when headlights bloomed behind him, slow and close. Tires crunched gravel, a car creeping up the block. Sam's breath caught. He shut the box, turning fast.

The car—a beat-up black sedan—idled at the curb, engine growling low. Sam backed toward the porch, soda can slick in his hand. A door creaked open, and a man climbed out—tall, wiry, a scarred face lit up by the headlights. Dark jacket, tattoos snaking up his neck, a smirk twisting his lips. Sam’s gut dropped. Not Jake’s guys—this was someone else.

“Sam, right?” the man said, voice smooth, too knowing. He stepped closer, boots scuffing the pavement. “Jake’s little shadow.”

Sam’s legs locked, the can cold against his palm. “Who’re you?” He retreated, the porch steps thundering on his heels. "What do you want?"

The man chuckled, low and sharp, stopping a few feet away. “Name’s Nick.” He leaned in, too close, his breath sour with cigarette smoke. “You’re Jake’s weakness, aren’t you?” His eyes glinted, dark and hard, raking over Sam like he was meat.

Sam's chest tightened, that pull blazing hot. "Back off," he snarled, stepping up onto the porch. "I don't know you."

Nick grinned, teeth flashing. "Oh, you will." He grabbed Sam up fast, catching his wrist before he could take off, dragging him into the yard. The can of soda hit the ground, fizzing loudly. "Does he touch you yet?" Nick breathed, his arm around Sam's wrist like a vice, his face inches from Sam's. "Jake's got a thing for holding onto what's his, huh?

Sam's gut churned, his face aflame with heat. "Let go!" He turned, punching with the other fist, but Nick stepped aside, his laughter a raw, jagged sound. Sam's throat was constricted by panic—he kicked at Nick's shin, but Nick shoved him back, holding him against the porch railing. Snappy, Nick announced, with a grin. "I like that. Makes this fun."

A snarl ripped through the darkness—wolfish, low. Jake's truck skidded around the corner, blinding lights and squealing tires as it fishtailed to a stop. Jake sprang out, growling, eyes shining yellow, gun already drawn. "Nick!" he thundered, sprinting forward. "Get your hands off of him!

Nick released Sam, slowly retreating, palms up but with a huge smile. "Easy, Jake. Just hello." His voice was heavy with feigned innocence, but his eyes were burning, locked on Jake with the intensity of a predator stalking its quarry.

Sam stumbled back, rubbing his wrist, breath ragged. Jake grabbed his arm, pulling him behind him, his grip tight and possessive. “Touch him again, and you’re dead,” Jake snarled, gun raised, steady on Nick’s chest. The air crackled, thick with tension, the wind swallowing their words.

Nick laughed, harsh and loud. "You can keep him?" He twisted his head to the side, tattoos shifting as he moved his neck. "He's why I've come, Jake. You kidnapped him, and now I'm taking him back."

Jake's snarl turned to a low, menacing rumble, his hand on Sam's arm closing harder. "He's my son," he spat, low and deadly. "Tell your Cobras to leave him be, or you'll be the one in the ground.".

Nick’s grin didn’t falter, but his eyes narrowed, cold and obsessive. “Oh, I’ll hurt you, Jake. Through him.” He nodded at Sam, a promise in his stare, then backed toward the sedan, hands still up. “See ya soon, little wolf.”

The door slammed, motor roaring as the car was gone, taillights vanishing in a flash. Jake stood there, gun still up, breathing harsh, until the sound was gone. He spun around, seizing Sam's shoulders, eyes wild—yellow fading to black. "You okay?" he growled, voice harsh but urgent.

Sam pushed him away, heart pounding. "Who is it? What does he want with me?"

His wrist throbbed, Nick's words—"Does he touch you?"—haunting his mind and twisting his gut.

Jake cracked his knuckles, holstering the gun. "Cobras," he said soft and bitter. "Nick's their enforcer. He's trouble—stay away from him." “That’s not an answer!” Sam snapped, stepping back. “He said you took me—what’s that mean? Why’s he obsessed with you?”

Jake’s jaw clenched, his face a wall. “He’s got a grudge. Old business. You’re caught in it—leave it at that.”

Sam’s hands balled into fists. “No! I’m not some pawn—you’re hiding something!” The tug flared, hot and confusing, tying him to Jake even now.

Jake stepped closer, voice dropping. “You’re mine to keep safe. That’s all you need.” He turned, heading for the house, boots crunching gravel. “Inside. Now.”

Sam stood there, wind biting his face, Nick’s grin burned into his mind. Through him. Why? Why was he the center of this? The pact, the note, his mom’s name—none of it fit, but Nick knew more than Jake was saying. And that obsession—it wasn’t just revenge. It was personal.

Headlights flickered far down the street—not Nick’s, but Sam’s pulse spiked anyway. He bolted inside, locking the door, questions choking him. Who was Nick really after—and why was Sam the key?