Contract With My Ex's Brother

Sparks in the Shadows

Vivian’s POV

The basement light flickers, casting erratic shadows across the concrete walls, making my heart race as I clutch Marcus’s hand, his rough fingers giving me a sense of stability. "Marcus... it’s not alone," I whisper, struggling to keep my voice steady. That unsettling humming—low and eerie, like a chorus of murmurs—vibrates through the steel door above, and it's no longer just one voice. I can hear at least two, maybe three, weaving together in a way that makes my wolf shrink back, tail tucked. Whatever lurks up there, it’s not just a single monster. It’s a whole pack, and we’re trapped like rabbits in a hole.

Marcus’s gaze snaps to mine, sharp and intense, though there's a glimmer of warmth there, as if he’s trying to keep me grounded. "Stay calm," he says, squeezing my hand before releasing it to grip his knife more firmly. "More voices don’t change our plan. We hold this position until dawn. They can’t break through steel."

"Calm?" I choke out, half-laughing despite the fear clawing at my chest. "There’s a freaking choir of creepy things upstairs, and you expect me to be calm?"

He flashes a crooked, reckless grin, unfairly charming enough to nearly distract me from the ominous humming. "You’re handling this better than most, trust me. Now, help me barricade the door."

I nod, swallowing my panic, scrambling to my feet; the cold floor biting into my bare soles. The basement is cramped, filled with crates of canned goods and old tools stacked against the walls, so we drag a heavy wooden bench to the bottom of the stairs, wedging it against the door. My arms ache, my torn dress clinging to my skin, but the work is grounding, giving me something to focus on other than the nightmare waiting above.

"Think this will hold?" I ask, wiping the sweat from my brow as we step back. The bench looks strong, but that hum—it’s growing louder, pulsing like a heartbeat.

"Long enough," Marcus replies, scanning the room. His shoulder is still bleeding through the makeshift bandage I tied, and guilt twists in my gut. He got hurt protecting me, and now we find ourselves cornered because I dragged him into this mess.

"Stop it," he says, catching my gaze with an intensity that feels like he’s reading my mind. "None of this is your fault."

I blink, surprised. "How did you—"

"Your face," he replies, softer now, stepping closer. "It’s all guilt and worry. Let me carry that for now, alright?"

My throat tightens, and I look away, focusing on the flickering bulb to stave off the impending tears. He’s too good at this—seeing me, saying the right thing—and it’s messing with my head. "Fine," I mutter, forcing a smirk. "But don’t think I’m letting you play the hero all night."

His laughter is low and warm, a flicker of light in the damp, shadowy space. "Deal. Now, let’s fortify this place."

We move quickly, piling crates against the bench to create a makeshift wall. The humming ebbs and flows, but there’s no banging at the door—not yet—and I cling to that small mercy. As we place the final crate, I catch my breath and lean against a cot. Marcus joins me, tucking his knife into his belt, and for a fleeting moment, we feel like just two people catching a breather, not a fake couple dodging monsters.

"So," I say, nudging his boot with mine to keep the mood light. "Is this a typical night for you? Creepy creatures and basement lockdowns?"

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. "Not really. I’m more about pack drama and bad whiskey. This is... new."

"New," I echo, raising a brow. "That’s one way to put it. Any theories on what those things are? I’m drawing a blank here."

He hesitates, jaw tightening as if he’s holding back. "Could be rogue creatures," he says thoughtfully. "Or maybe something tied to the pack’s land. Old legends mention spirits, guardians—things that might wake up when trouble hits."

"Trouble like Clayton rejecting me?" I ask quietly. The mate bond twinges in my chest, a dull ache I can’t shake off, and I resent how it lingers, binding me to someone who tossed me aside.

Marcus’s expression darkens, but not with anger—more with a protective, almost tender vibe. "Maybe. Breaking a fated bond is rare and could stir up something. But that’s not your fault, Vivian. It’s his."

I nod, chewing my lip as silence settles around us, broken only by the faint hum above. It’s softer now, almost like the creatures are biding their time, which feels even worse. "You’re really good at this," I say, glancing at him. "Keeping me from losing it."

"Practice," he replies, his grin returning. "You’re not the first damsel I’ve saved."

"Damsel?" I huff, nudging him lightly. "Watch it, or I’ll turn the tables and save you next."

"Looking forward to it," he shoots back, and the way his gaze lingers—warm and teasing—causes a flutter in me I don’t want to acknowledge. My wolf is paying attention too, her curiosity about him growing, and I quickly push that away. This is a contract, not a crush.

A soft thud overhead causes us both to freeze, the humming spiking again. Marcus stands, knife in hand, and I follow suit, my pulse quickening. "They’re testing us," he murmurs, eyes fixed on the door. "Looking for a weakness."

"What do we do if they break in?" I ask, my voice steadier than I feel. I’m not a fighter, but I refuse to cower—not anymore.

"We don’t let them in," he replies, turning to face me. "But if it comes to it, you shift and bail. Your wolf is fast, Vivian. Use that."

"And leave you behind?" I shake my head, stepping closer. "Not happening. We're a team, remember?"

His lips twitch, as if trying to suppress a smile, and he reaches out, brushing a strand of hair from my face. His fingers linger, warm against my cheek, and my breath catches. "Stubborn," he murmurs almost to himself. "I like that."

"Get used to it," I respond, my voice softer than I intended, and for a moment, the basement feels smaller, thick with a new intensity. His hand drops, but his gaze lingers, and I suddenly notice how close we are, how his scent—pine and musk—wraps around me like a promise.

The humming halts abruptly, startling both of us, and Marcus spins to face the door, knife raised. The silence feels heavy, suffocating, and my wolf's ears perk up, straining for any sound. Then—a soft, rhythmic tapping, not from the door but from the wall behind us. My stomach drops, and I grip Marcus’s arm, my nails digging into him.

"They’re in the walls?" I whisper, horror rising within. The concrete’s solid—how is that even possible?

"Not in," Marcus clarifies, voice steady. "They’re around us. There’s a crawlspace under the cabin. They’re probing."

"Probing?" I hiss, eyes darting to the wall. The tapping quickens, like fingers drumming, and it’s coming from multiple places. "Marcus, that’s not probing—that’s a strategy!"

"Stay close to me," he insists, pulling me toward the center of the room, away from the walls. He’s alert, calculating, and I can almost envision the gears turning in his mind. "We need to distract them. Buy time until sunrise."

"Distract them how?" I ask, racing to keep up. I may not be a strategist, but I’m not completely helpless either. "Noise? Light?"

"Light," he says, snapping his fingers. "There’s a flare in one of these crates. If we can get it through the crawlspace vent, it might scare them off."

"Flare it is," I reply, diving for the nearest crate. We rush through boxes, tossing aside cans and tools, the tapping growing louder, more insistent. Despite the tremors in my hands, I keep moving, fueled by adrenaline and the urgency to act. Finally, I spot it—a red flare stick, heavy and cold.

"Got it!" I shout, tossing it to Marcus. He catches it effortlessly, already moving to a small vent near the floor, barely a foot wide.

"Cover me," he commands, kneeling to pry it open. "If anything comes through, scream."

"Scream?" I scoff, grabbing a wrench from the floor. "I’ll do better than that."

He grins, quick and bright, a light amidst the chaos. The vent pops open, and he lights the flare, its red glow hissing to life. The tapping halts, as if they sense the danger, and my heart races as he shoves the flare into the crawlspace, slamming the vent shut.

The flare’s light brightens before sputtering, and a new sound emerges—a shrill, furious screech, followed by footsteps racing inside the cabin above us.