Chapter 8: The Unwanted Attention

Sam woke all bundled up in sheets dripping with sweat, a pounding dull ache creeping through his bones. Sunlight sliced through the blinds, gray and cold, piercing his head. He grunted, turning over, his hoodie pulled too tight around his chest, strings knotted from fidgeting pulling all night long. His skin burned—hot, stinging, like a fever that refused to break. He kicked the blankets off, legs shaking as he came up, and rubbed his eyes. The room spun, slow and heavy, the air weighing in his chest. Something was amiss—not just ill, not just weary. Something deeper.

He stumbled to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face, the shock reminding him. The mirror showed a shambles—pale face, dark circles under his eyes, brown hair plastered on his forehead. His green eyes stared back, wide and glassy, pupils dilated too far. He grasped the sink, gasping, a strange heat curled in his belly. His nose twitched—coffee downstairs, distant cigar smoke, something metallic he could not place. Everything smelled keener, more violently, against him.

Footsteps thudded below—Jake, up early. Sam’s stomach flipped, that tug in his chest flaring hot, pulling him toward the sound. He yanked his hoodie strings tight, knotting them, and shook his head. No. Not after last night—Nick’s grin, Jake’s gun, “You’re mine to keep safe.” He couldn’t face him, not with this weirdness crawling under his skin. He grabbed his phone from the bed—7:23 a.m., a text from Ethan: "Quad today? Got notes for you." Sam hesitated, then typed, "Yeah, 9." He needed out—out of Jake's world, out of the house, out of whatever was happening with him.

Downstairs the kitchen smelled of burnt toast and smoke. Jake stood against the counter, leather jacket, mug cradled in one hand, cigar stub in the other. Dark eyes flicked to Sam as he stepped onto the landing, narrowing fast. "You look like hell," he growled, rough voice, cracking his knuckles hard. Smoke curled up, heavy and gray, but something shifted in his eyes—sharp, intense, as if he saw something.

Sam froze, the tug spiking, hot and tight. “I’m fine,” he muttered, brushing past to grab a soda from the fridge. His hand shook, the can cold against his burning skin. Jake’s scent hit him—leather, smoke, something wild and earthy—stronger than ever, dizzying. He popped the tab, the hiss loud, and took a gulp, avoiding Jake’s eyes.

"You're not fine." Jake set the mug down, stepping forward, too forward. "You're burning up—and you stink…" He didn't finish, jaw clenching, nostrils flaring. "Stay in today. No school."

Sam gripped the can tightly, soda fizzing. "What?" He turned around, scowling. "I'm not skipping 'cause you tell me to. I have class."

Jake's hand flashed out, grasping Sam's arm, warm and constricting. "You don't get it," he growled, voice low and menacing. "You're shifting—your scent's off. Every wolf on the planet's gonna smell it. Stay in." Sam pulled away, his face hot with indignation. "Shifting? What're you talking about?" His voice cracked, the pain in his bones thudding harder. "You don't own me, Jake!

Jake's eyes burned yellow, swift and hot. "You're an omega—you're coming into your instincts. That fever, that smell—things are coming for you." He cracked his knuckles again, the sound boisterous. "Nick's out there, others too. You step outside, you're a target.".

Sam’s chest heaved, the words sinking in slow—omega, instincts, scent. The pact, the tug, Nick’s creepy grin—“You’re Jake’s weakness.” His skin crawled, hot and tight, but he squared his shoulders. “I’m not your prisoner,” he snapped, shoving the soda onto the counter. “I’m going.”

"Sam—" Jake started, stepping forward, but Sam ran upstairs and slammed his bedroom door. He locked it, panting, and leaned back against the wood. His body ached—muscles, joints, a fire burning under his ribs he couldn't smother. Jake's words echoed—drawing them in. Was that why Nick boxed him in? Why the headlights pursued? He pulled on his backpack, shoving in his phone and the note, and pulled on sneakers. No way he was going to remain locked up.

The window creaked as he pushed it open, a blast of cold air within. He emerged, falling to the roof of the porch, then the yard, his legs trembling but supporting him. The bike remained by the curb—he opened it swiftly, pedaling off before Jake could grab him. The wind hit his face, biting and fresh, but his fever burned hotter, sweat beading even in the chill.

The quad was quieter at 9, students making their way to class. Sam locked up his bike, scanning the crowd—no dark sweaters, no Nick. His head throbbed, scents hitting him full strength—coffee, grass, some girl's cheap perfume. Too much, too much. He lowered his hood, noticing Ethan standing beneath the same tree as yesterday, notebook held in his hand. Green eyes looking up, hitting Sam's, a small smile on his lips.

"Hey," Ethan murmured, closing the notebook. "History notes for you."

"Thanks," Sam grunted, taking the pages. His hand brushed against Ethan's—cool, hard—and his gut knotted, unlike Jake's heat. Ethan smelled. peaceful, woodsy, a hint of something wild that made Sam's nostrils wrinkle. He moved back, shoving the notes into his pack. "Thanks."

Ethan tilted his head, studying him. “You okay? You’re… off today.” His eyes lingered, sharp but gentle, like he saw more than he should.

Sam’s face heated, the fever pulsing. “Just a cold,” he lied, tugging his strings. Ethan’s scent grew stronger, pulling at him, and his chest tightened—drawing them in, Jake said. Was Ethan one of them? “I’ll be fine.”

Ethan inclined his head, slow, rubbing his neck. "If you say so. Seen anything unusual recently? Campus is. on edge." His tone was easy, but his eyes were weighted, questioning.

Sam tensed, Nick's words flashing—"Does he touch you?" "Not really," he said too quickly. "Just busy." Did Ethan smell it? Werewolves, pacts—could he taste it too? His head spun, scents crashing—Ethan's, the grass, a dog barking in the distance—drowning.

"Fair," Ethan replied, smiling weak. "Be careful, Sam. You get caught off guard here." He slung his pack over his shoulder and walked away, but his words lingered—mysterious, knowing.

Sam trailed after him, breath unsteady. Sneak up. Ethan wasn't stupid—he brought up something, but what? The fever bubbled higher, his joints aching as he folded onto the bench. A guy across the quad stared too long—tall, leather jacket, sunglasses hiding the eyes. Sam's heart jolted—another one? He leapt on his bike, flying through the ground, needing space.

The ride home was a blur, twilight descending gray and heavy. Sam's legs trembled, the fever sapping his energy, but he pushed on, Elm Street an endless stretch. A car engine revved behind him—near, steady. He glanced over his shoulder—headlights, low and slow, on his tail. His gut dropped—Nick? He cut into an alley, tires squealing, attempting to lose them. The engine followed, taking the turn tight.

Sam left the bike behind, racing between the buildings, breath harsh. Footsteps thudded—fast, heavy. A hand grasped his hoodie, yanking him hard back. He stumbled, crashing into a brick wall, and Nick loomed over him, scarred face grinning in the darkness.

"Running again?" Nick's voice was silky, too close. His grip shifted, trapping Sam's wrist, his tattoos writhing under the streetlamp glow. "You smell good tonight, little wolf."

Sam's skin crawled, heat rippling through him—fear, fever, that pull wild. "Let go," he snarled, twisting, but Nick was holding on, leaning in, breath hot on Sam's neck.

"Jake's losing his grip," Nick panted, grinning. "You're waking up—every wolf's gonna want a slice." His other hand poised over Sam's face, tormenting. "He can't keep you secret forever.".

A growl ripped through the alley—Jake, storming in, eyes blazing yellow. “Nick!” he roared, shoving him off Sam, fists clenched. “Back off—now!”

Nick laughed, stepping away, hands up. “Just testing, Jake. He’s ripe—can’t blame me.” His grin widened, obsessive, locked on Jake. “You’ll break soon.”

Jake advanced, but Nick dodged and disappeared into darkness as the vehicle drove off. Sam stood beside the wall, chest heaving, Jake's heat against his side. "You okay?" Jake growled, catching hold of his arm, possessive and furious.

Sam shook himself free, his voice shaking in anger, relief, confusion. "You followed me?"

Jake's jaw taut, dark eyes. "Good thing I did." He didn't speak, his atmosphere black, anger seething.

Sam stared, the fever burning, Nick's words—all wolves—echoing. Jake had tailed him, watched him, and he didn't like it. But why Nick's obsession? Why him? The alley grew constricted, and Sam's knees buckled, the truth still out of reach.