Chapter 3 Whispers and Warnings

Wynter's POV

Anne finally turned and strode away, her entourage falling into step behind her, chin lifted high as if she'd just won a war.

The hallway emptied. Fifty students dissolved into classrooms like smoke, leaving me alone with the echo of her voice: "You'll end up in a body bag. Just like your father."

My hands wouldn't stop shaking.

Last night, watching Chase walk away with her—I'd thought that was the worst pain I'd know. I was wrong. That was the warning. This was the execution.

The classroom door loomed three feet away. I pushed it open.

—

The classroom buzzed as I slipped through the door. Conversations didn't stop—they paused, reset, shifted to whispers pitched just loud enough to ensure I'd hear.

A girl two rows over physically turned her bag to block the empty seat beside her. Another stretched across both chairs, phone suddenly fascinating. Within seconds, a three-desk radius of empty space materialized around my usual spot by the window.

My scalp throbbed where Natalie had yanked my hair; my shoulder burned from being slammed into a wall. I kept my hands steady on my bag strap. Don't let them see.

I sank into my seat, focusing on the worn wood of my desk.

Fragments still drifted from the window cluster, sharp enough to draw blood even at this distance.

"—can't believe she showed up—"

"—the way she looked at him was desperate—"

"—that kind of bad luck shouldn't go near the future Alpha—"

My wolf's growl vibrated in my molars—a sound humans wouldn't hear but every shifter in the room would feel in their marrow. I kept my fingers cinched on the desk edge. Ignore them.

"—trying to seduce him—"

"Poor Anne. Imagine a nobody Beta making eyes at your fiancé—"

Fiancé hit like a slap. Chase and Anne weren't engaged, but everyone treated it as inevitable—the Sterling heir bound to Bloodrock's Alpha daughter. The Moon Goddess had other plans; no one cared but me.

Sun cut across heavy beams engraved with Pack symbols; the windows threw long bars of light over desks like a quiet prison.

The door swung open and Rosalie marched straight to my desk, dropping into the seat beside me with a scrape.

"Morning," she said brightly, voice pitched to carry. "How are you feeling today, Wyn?"

I glanced up; her eyes were fixed on the window group, her smile razor-sharp. "I'm fine."

"Good." She lowered her voice, leaning close. "Did you hear about Grey's new pet project?"

I blinked. "What?"

"A Rogue. Eastern Wastes, silver collar, the whole package. Arrived this morning—General Housing." Her expression shifted from anger to something warier. "People are losing their minds. Betting pools on how long before he snaps."

My stomach dropped. Rogues were wolves without Packs—outcasts, criminals, or worse. The Eastern Wastes—lawless territories where Packs went to die and outcasts gathered like carrion birds.

"Why would Grey allow that?"

Rosalie shrugged. "Politics? Optics? Or he's genuinely lost his mind." Her eyes flicked toward the window. "Half the Pack thinks it's a PR stunt. The other half is sharpening knives."

Before I could respond, heels clicked. Scarlett Hayes stopped behind Rosalie, arms crossed.

"You really should be careful about the company you keep," she purred. "Bad things happen to people who get too close to her. Plants dying since she arrived—even the ancient oak by the library is withering. Curses don't discriminate."

Rosalie turned, smile unblinking. "Bullshit. Say it in front of Headmaster Grey."

Scarlett's eyes narrowed. "It's advice. Everyone knows she brought death to her mom, then her father died. Do you want to end up the same?"

My wolf surged, claws pressing. My father's death—on a mission in Silvermoon Territory two years ago, assassination blamed on the Sterlings, never proven—burned like coals in my chest.

Rosalie stood so fast her chair tipped, palms slamming the desk.

"You listen to me, you vicious little—"

I caught her wrist. "Rosalie. Don't."

She looked at me, eyes blazing. I shook my head. "It's not worth it. Please."

A beat. Then she exhaled and stepped back. "Fine. But if she says one more word—"

"She won't," I said, meeting Scarlett's gaze.

Scarlett huffed and drifted back to her flock. I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

Rosalie sank into her seat, jaw clenched. "I hate them."

"I know," I said quietly. "But you can't keep fighting my battles, Rosie."

"Someone has to." She lowered her voice. "The way they treat you isn't fair. You're the kindest person I know, Wyn. They don't deserve you."

I nodded, pretending not to notice when Rosalie's fingers slipped over mine for a quick squeeze.

—

By lunch, my jaw ached from clenching. The morning had been a gauntlet of pointed stares and muttered comments, each one chipping at my composure.

Moonshadow sprawled across the neutral zone—red brick, cobblestone paths, oaks lining every walk. Some leaves browned too soon, just as Scarlett had said.

At the cafeteria, hierarchy was literally built in: General Class jammed on the first floor, Elite watching from the second-floor railing, an Alpha-only plaque gleaming upstairs like a warning.

On the notice board, a fresh sheet fluttered—Headmaster Grey's Rehabilitation Program—train the wild to sit, someone had scrawled underneath.

Rosalie looped her arm through mine. "Ignore them. Library after lunch?"

I nodded, grateful for the distraction.

We were halfway around the corner when voices drifted from the archway ahead.

"—they actually let one into the school—"

"A Rogue? Are they insane?"

"Grey thinks he can 'reform' them. Like you can civilize a wild animal."

"I'm staying far away. Who knows what disease he's carrying—"

My wolf went still, attention sharpening. So this was Grey's project—actually here, on campus.

"Come on," Rosalie murmured, tugging my sleeve. "Before they switch to you."

We stepped into the small courtyard. Low stone walls etched with moon phases; an autumn wind carrying the scent of leaves and distant howls from the training fields.

I was starting to breathe easier when I saw them.

A cluster near the far wall—three Betas circling someone with their backs to us. Taunts snapped in the air, harsh laughter echoing off stone.

Then I saw it—the glint of silver near the ground.

A collar. Not just any collar—Northern Judgment model, the kind with inward-facing spikes that bit deeper with every breath.

My steps slowed.

A Beta shoved the figure. He shifted his weight with practiced ease, absorbing the impact without losing balance.

That stance.

Something in my chest tightened.

Another shove, harder this time. His hands came up—scarred knuckles, the way his left thumb pressed against his thigh in that old defensive habit—

A flash of memory: A boy too small for his bones, pressing his thumb against his leg the same way whenever he was scared. "You're my Sis," he'd whispered.

My wolf went still. Not in fear. In recognition.

He turned just enough for me to see his profile.

Dark hair fallen into eyes that burned with contained fury. Taller, broader, face carved harder by years I hadn't witnessed—

But those eyes. Storm-cloud grey.

Jax.

The world tilted.

Another Beta grabbed his shoulder, spinning him around. The collar's spikes turned inward to pierce skin with every swallow. Even from feet away, I smelled burnt flesh under the metallic stench.

Jax's jaw tightened, but he didn't fight back. Didn't speak. Just stood there, taking it, like he'd learned resistance only made things worse.

I didn't think.

I moved.

"Stop!" I ran and threw myself between Jax and the Betas, arms spread. "Don't touch him!"

They froze—shock rippling across their faces, then derision.

Rosalie skidded behind me, fingers gripping my shoulder, shifting half a step to cover my side. "Wyn—what are you—"

I ignored her. Turned—too fast, like if I hesitated my body would remember this was a mistake—and there they were.

Those eyes. Not just haunted now, but hollowed.

"Jax," I breathed. "What are you doing here?"