Tangled Bonds and Hidden Claws

Sam pedaled his bike down Elm Street, tires humming over the cracked pavement. The wind rushed past, catching at his hoodie, cold and bitter for late February. A stray dog darted out of an alley, barking off the brick walls lining the block. He swerved, cursing under his breath, and gripped the brakes tightly enough to steady himself. The edge of the city stretched out before him—half college town, half abandoned dump—streetlights blinking as if they couldn't make up their minds to remain. He looked back, saw the dog's shadow disappearing, then shoved his legs harder. Jake's house stood two blocks away, a low, gray box with blistering paint and too many vehicles parked in front. Sam did not want to go back, not after the shouting yesterday, but his dorm room was occupied tonight—laundry night, and he had worn out all his clean socks.

He came to a halt at the curb, kicking the stand down with his sneaker. A sparrow flock exploded from the power lines, cheeping loudly enough to drown out the whine of a passing motorcycle. He yanked his pack off, having it ride over the top of his shoulder, and fished the keys out of his pocket. The metal rang as he mounted the porch stairs, boots scrabbling buckled wood. He stuck the key into the lock, turned it hard—too hard, almost jamming it. The door creaked open, and he went inside, leaving the keys clattering on the counter. The air smelled of stale coffee and something bitter, metallic. He sniffed, wrinkling his nose, and switched on the wall light. Not so much sophistication living here—there was a sofa that sagged, a TV with a broken remote control, and a stack of takeout boxes on the kitchen table.

Jake leaned against the railing at the top of the stairs. He flipped open a lighter, the tiny flame igniting the tip of his cigar, and exhaled a halo of smoke that curled upward. Sam lingered halfway to the other side of the room, dropping his backpack onto the floor. Jake towered—six-foot-whatever, thick shoulders straining beneath a threadbare leather jacket, dark hair spiking like he'd rolled out of bed. He was always like that, like he was meant to be in this place and all the people inside it. Sam hated it. He tugged the strings of his hoodie tight, a habit he couldn’t shake when Jake stared too long.

“You’re late,” Jake said, voice low and rough, like gravel under tires. He tapped the cigar ash into a chipped mug on the table.

Sam kicked the corner of his backpack, pushing it against the wall. "Class dragged. Professor wouldn't shut up." He folded his arms, resting on the counter, attempting to appear nonchalant—as if Jake's tone didn't make his skin crawl.

Jake didn't buy it. He stood upright, cracking each of his knuckles in turn, the sound tearing through the quiet. "Got something for you." He slapped his jacket, pulling out a crumpled sheet of paper—worn, yellowed, edges frayed like it'd been stuffed into a drawer for decades. He dropped it on the table, nudging it over to Sam with a flick of his wrist. "Read it.".

Sam furrowed his brows, coming nearer. He unfurled his face slowly, taking it into his hands. Paper was funny—too hot, humming beneath his fingers. Something written there in black blots, wearing off but visible, and the blue glow pounded from the strokes, pulsing like a pulse. He grimaced his face, reading the words—".blood oath" and "binding." His belly churned over. "What the devil's this?

Jake puffed his cigar again, smoke drifting between them. “You’re an omega, Sam. Werewolf blood—mine and yours. Old family pact says you’re tied to me.”

Sam dropped the paper like it burned, stepping back fast. “You’re full of it.” He kicked the table leg, rattling the mug. “Werewolves? That’s movie stuff, Jake.” He bit his thumbnail, tasting blood where he’d chewed too deep—a nervous tic he couldn’t stop.

Jake didn't flinch. He cracked his knuckles again, slow and deliberate, and then probed the paper with his finger. "Not a movie. True. You belong to me—mate, pack, whatever it is you do. Been like that since I brought you home." 

Sam's heart caught. He braced himself against the counter, his fingers gripping white with pressure. "You mean after Mom—" He shut down, his throat closing over. He spun around, yanking open the fridge, pretending to look for something—anything to get out of seeing Jake. Three years earlier, Mom's car had flipped on the highway, and Jake had signed the papers to adopt him. Stepdad became official guardian. Now this? He slammed the fridge shut, grasping nothing. "No way. You don't get to pull this."

Jake stepped closer, boots thudding on the linoleum. “It’s blood, kid. You’re in it now—born into it, same as me.” He stubbed the cigar in the mug, grinding it out. “Alpha and omega. That’s us.”

Sam whirled back, shoving a chair between them. “You’re crazy!” He grabbed his backpack, swinging it over his shoulder, and bolted for the door. His hand hit the knob, twisting it open—cold air rushed in, carrying the sound of leaves skittering across the porch. He needed out, away from Jake’s voice, that stupid paper, all of it.

Jake jumped, grabbing his arm, pulling him in. Sam stumbled, dropping the backpack for the third time. "Let go!" He swung his fist, missing wide once more, and kicked Jake's shin—this time hitting. Jake growled but didn't budge, grip like a vice.

"It's not a choice," Jake snarled, pulling Sam in close enough to smell the tobacco on his breath. "You feel it, don't you? That tug? Been there since you walked in."

Sam jerked free, rubbing his arm where Jake’s fingers had dug in. He did feel it—had for years, that weird buzz in his chest whenever Jake was near. He’d chalked it up to nerves, to hating the guy who’d taken over his life. But now? He bit his nail again, harder, staring at the floor. “You’re lying,” he muttered, voice cracking.

Jake cracked his knuckles again, as loud as a gunshot in the small room. "Wish I was." He spun, snatching the paper from the table, folding it back into his jacket. "You're nineteen now—old enough to know. Pact came into effect when you reached that age. No getting out of it." 

Sam crept towards the stairs, catching the railing. "I'm not yours.". Never will be. He descended the stairs two at a time, boots thumping against the wood, and closed his bedroom door behind him. He locked it, clicking the bolt through with a thud, then sat back against it, gasping. The wind outside bellowed louder, rattling the windowpane. He pulled his hoodie strings tight, tying them against his chin, and sat down to the floor, knees up. Jake's words rotated inside his head—"tied to me," "no choice." What was that all about? Jake took out his phone from his pocket, looking at the clock—9:47. Too late to call Lisa, too late to drive to any other location. Jake let the phone drop on the carpet and bounce once.

Downstairs, Jake's voice resonated, deep and muffled—talking to someone. Sam pressed his ear against the door, attempting to hear. Footsteps rustled, quick and heavy, and then the front door opened. He cracked his window. Peered out. The streetlight hummed, spilling yellow pools across the pavement. Two cars now lined the curb—Jake's rusty truck and a shiny black sedan he'd never seen. Three guys got out, glinting leather jackets, one kicking a can into the gutter. Sam caught his breath. He drew out a wad of loose hair from inside his hood and twisted it around his fingers—a habit Mom always nagged him for.

Jake stepped out onto the porch, firing off another cigar, the flame high. He waved the guys over, muttering something Sam couldn't quite catch. The tallest one—shaved head, paunchy—cracked his neck and looked up into Sam's window. Sam ducked fast, heart thudding against his ribcage. He picked up his phone again, swiping it on—nothing, just a flash bar. "Come on," he breathed, tapping it against his knee.

The porch boards groaned under. Jake's voice boomed out, raw. "They're here—hold on, Sam." Doors slammed, tires crunching high over gravel. Shadows spilled across the lawn, moving fast. Sam leapt to the window, peering out again. The sedan roared away, taillights growing fainter, but the bald man stood there, looking up—right at him. Sam yanked the curtain shut, taking a step back. Who were they? And what was Jake making so light of it?