Chapter 4 The Stray's Return

Wynter's POV

"Jax," I breathed, my voice breaking on his name, the single syllable carrying years of memories I'd tried to bury. "What are you doing here?"

The three Betas who'd been circling him froze, their eyes snapping to me with a mixture of shock and disgust. One of them—a stocky guy with a Silvermoon crest stitched over his uniform pocket, the broken crescent and fang glinting in the light—let out a harsh laugh that made my skin crawl.

"Oh, this is perfect," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "The cursed Beta knows the Rogue. Of course she does. Birds of a feather, right?"

His companions snickered, and I felt Rosalie's hand tighten on my shoulder, her nails digging in through the fabric of my shirt. Out of the corner of my eye, the campus conduct plaque by the arch caught sunlight: Public brawls—zero tolerance. All incidents routed to Headmaster Grey’s hearing. My stomach flipped.

The stocky one took a step toward me, lip curling, and I realized too late that I’d made things worse—that by acknowledging Jax, by showing we had history, I’d handed them a new weapon to use against both of us.

"You know what this means, don't you?" he continued, raising his voice so the students gathering at the edges of the courtyard could hear. "The bad-luck Beta’s been consorting with Rogues. Sneaking them food, hiding them from patrol. Maybe that’s why her father died—karma catching up for betraying her own kind."

"That's not—" I started, but he cut me off.

"Shut up," he snarled, and before I could react, he shoved me hard in the chest, sending me stumbling backward into Rosalie. "You're both disgusting. A Rogue-lover and the collar mutt she protects. You deserve each other."

Rosalie caught me before I hit the ground, her hands iron-tight on my arms. Shock flickered across her face, then hardened into something fiercer. "Don't you dare touch her!" she shouted, stepping in front of me like a shield. The Beta just laughed.

"Or what? You going to stop me, little Beta?" He shoved her too—lighter, but enough to make her stumble.

My wolf surged, claws pricking, a snarl rising in my throat.

Before I moved, Jax was there—sliding between us and the Betas with the fluid certainty of someone who’d had to fight to live.

"That's enough," he said, voice low and dangerous.

Up close, the matte suppressor collar at his throat caught the light—Council issue. It dampened shift and frenzy surges, throttled back the worst of the wolf. It didn’t fully kill baseline strength or reflexes. I knew that much. Still, seeing it on him made my chest ache.

The stocky Beta’s eyes narrowed. He traded glances with his companions—both suddenly less sure, their bravado wilting under Jax’s cold, unwavering stare. "You think you can tell us what to do, Rogue?" he said, but the edge had thinned. "You’re wearing a collar. Property. Chain-dog. You don’t get to—"

He didn’t finish. Jax moved so fast I almost didn’t see it—one heartbeat stillness, the next his fist driving into the Beta’s jaw. The crack echoed off stone. The Beta went down hard, head snapping back, hitting the pavement with a thud that drew gasps from the ring of onlookers.

For a breath, the courtyard held its silence.

Then the other two lunged, claws out, faces twisted with rage and humiliation.

Jax was ready. He slipped past the first strike, caught a wrist, and torqued it cleanly—controlled, efficient—until the boy cried out and dropped to his knees. As he turned, the collar at his throat flared a dull heat against skin; I saw the hitch in his breath, the wince he didn’t let become a weakness. No shift. No frenzy. Just ruthless training and reflex.

The second Beta drove in from behind. Jax spun, slammed an elbow into ribs, and sent him sprawling into a bench, air whooshing out of him.

It was over in seconds. All three were down—the stocky one clutching his jaw, eyes wide and wet with shock; the second cradling his wrist, pale and sweating; the third gasping, palm pressed to ribs.

Jax stood over them, chest heaving, knuckles split and slick. His eyes burned with a cold, feral intensity that made even the watching students retreat a step. The metallic tang of blood mixed with the sharp, clean bite of silver from the crest threads; somewhere, a crow complained from the eaves.

"Anyone else?" he asked softly, gaze sweeping the crowd. No one moved. No one spoke. Phones lifted. Red recording dots blinked.

I shoved a breath back down and dropped a hand to the panic beacon bolted under the arch—one press logged a timestamp and sent an incident ping to Student Affairs. "Stop filming," I snapped at the nearest camera, even as I memorized two usernames flashing on screen. Rosalie, already thinking three steps ahead, slid her hand into mine, then flicked open our cohort group chat with her thumb, firing off a quick ping to Ms. Lark in Discipline: courtyard, three aggressors, medical needed.

The stocky Beta—Hale, I realized as he turned—staggered upright. His legs shook. Fear stripped him raw. "You’re insane," he spat, blood stringing from his split lip. "You’re a dead man. The Headmaster’s going to hear about this. You attacked us—unprovoked—"

"Unprovoked?" Jax repeated, voice soft and deadly. "You shoved two girls. You insulted them. You threatened them. If that’s not provocation, I don’t know what is."

Hale’s jaw worked, but nothing came out. He glanced at his companions—still struggling to stand—then turned and ran. Not walked—ran—toward the main building. The other two limped after him, cursing. I knew the route they’d take: medical wing first to get their injuries documented, then straight to Grey to lock in their story.

On the far side of campus, a patrol radio crackled faintly—static and clipped code, still blocks away. Black jackets ghosted at the gate and were gone again. We had minutes, not seconds.

Around us, whispers swelled into a hive-buzz. More phones. More cameras. My stomach twisted.

This was going to be everywhere.