Chapter 4 The Stray's Return
Wynter's POV
“Jax”
His name ripped out of me before I could stop it—not a question, barely a breath.
The three Betas froze mid-circle, heads snapping toward me like wolves scenting blood. One of them—stocky, Silvermoon crest glinting on his chest—let his sneer spread slow and ugly.
"Oh, this is perfect."
He took a step toward me. Then another.
"The cursed Beta knows the Rogue."
Rosalie's nails dug into my shoulder—warning, anchoring. My wolf prickled under my skin, claws itching to meet his smug face halfway. Out of the corner of my eye, the campus conduct plaque caught sunlight: Public brawls—zero tolerance.
My stomach flipped.
"Birds of a feather, right?" His voice pitched louder now, playing to the students gathering at the courtyard's edges. "Bad-luck Beta's been consorting with Rogues. Sneaking them food. Hiding them from patrol."
He leaned in close enough I could smell the coffee on his breath.
"Maybe that's why her mother died first—cursed from the start. Then her father." He laughed, cold and sharp. "She's a walking plague. Kills everyone she touches. No wonder she's running with Rogues now—who else would have her?"
The words hit like a fist to the ribs.
"That's not—"
"Shut up."
He shoved me—hard—chest-center, and I stumbled backward into Rosalie. She caught me before I hit the ground, hands iron-tight on my arms, shock flickering across her face before it hardened into something fiercer.
"Don't you dare touch her!" she shouted, stepping in front of me like a shield.
The Beta laughed. "Or what? You going to stop me, little Beta?"
He shoved her too—lighter, but enough to make her stumble.
Jax moved.
Not calculated. Not controlled.
He closed the distance in two strides and swung—wild, furious—his fist connecting with the stocky Beta's jaw with a dull, meaty crack.
The Beta staggered back, eyes wide with shock.
"You don't talk about her like that," Jax snarled, voice raw and shaking.
The other two lunged.
The first—lanky, quick—drove a fist into Jax's ribs. I heard the air whoosh out of him, saw him double over, gasping.
The second tackled him from the side, slamming him into the pavement. His shoulder hit stone with a sickening thud.
"Jax!" I screamed.
The stocky Beta—Hale—recovered, spitting blood, and kicked Jax hard in the stomach. Once. Twice.
"Stupid Rogue," Hale sneered, breathing hard. "You think you can touch me? You're collared. You're nothing."
He kicked again.
Jax tried to block, arms up, but the lanky Beta grabbed his wrist and wrenched it back. The collar at Jax's throat flared—dull, pulsing red—heat rippling across the metal surface.
My stomach dropped.
It's suppressing him. He can't fight back.
But Jax kept trying.
He twisted, broke free from the grip on his wrist, and threw a wild elbow that caught the lanky Beta in the ribs. The boy stumbled back, cursing.
Hale grabbed Jax by the collar—physically grabbed the suppressor—and slammed him back down.
"Stay down," Hale spat.
The collar flared brighter. Red light pulsed faster now—warning, struggling to contain the rage boiling under Jax's skin.
I could see it in his eyes: the wolf clawing to get out, trapped, suffocating.
"Jax, stop!" Rosalie shouted. "You're going to hurt yourself—"
He didn't listen.
He surged up again, tackling Hale around the waist, driving him backward into the bench. They hit hard—wood splintering—and Jax's fist came down.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Each hit landed clean and brutal—cheekbone, jaw, temple—blood spraying across stone.
The collar screamed red, heat shimmering off it in visible waves.
But Jax didn't stop.
"Don't—" "—ever—" "—talk about her—" "—like that."
Hale's head lolled. His eyes rolled back.
The lanky Beta grabbed Jax's arm, yanking him off. "He's done! He's done!"
But Jax shoved him away, stumbling to his feet, fists still clenched. The collar pulsed—slower now, but still glowing—his wolf snarling just beneath the surface, barely contained.
His chest heaved. Blood dripped from split knuckles. His eyes were wild, unfocused.
He's lost in it.
Around us, the crowd had grown. Phones lifted. Red recording dots blinked.
And then I heard it.
The sharp crackle of a patrol radio.
My head snapped toward the sound—beyond the courtyard's edge, two figures in black jackets, still a block away but closing fast.
"Jax."
I said his name quietly. Firmly.
He didn't respond.
"Jax."
I stepped forward, closer, until I was right in front of him. His gaze flickered to me—recognition struggling through the haze.
"Patrol," I said, voice steady. "They're coming. Right now."
His breathing hitched.
"If they see you like this—" I glanced at Hale, slumped and bleeding, at the crowd with their phones, at the collar still glowing faint red at his throat. "—they'll take you. You know they will."
For a moment, he just stared at me.
Then something shifted in his eyes. The wildness receded. The wolf retreated.
He blinked, chest still heaving, and nodded once.
The lanky Beta helped Hale to his feet. The stocky boy swayed, legs shaking, blood stringing from his split lip. Fear stripped him raw, but anger burned hotter.
He looked at me—at Rosalie—and then at Jax.
"You think this is over?" he rasped, voice thick. "You're dead, Rogue. All three of you."
He spat blood onto the pavement.
He jabbed a finger at Jax, then at me.
"You just made the biggest mistake of your lives."
The patrol radio crackled again—closer now, just around the corner.
Hale's sneer widened. "Hope you enjoyed your little outburst, Rogue. It's the last freedom you'll ever have."
He turned, limping toward the main building, the other two supporting him. The crowd parted for them, whispers rising like smoke.
"Wait and see," Hale called over his shoulder. "Just wait and see what happens to all of you."
