Page 26 of Wolf's Whisper

“The plan?” Hatchet echoes, arching an eyebrow at me like I just asked if the sky was blue. “The plan is to keep you and the kids safe while we track this asshole down and make sure he gets the message loud and clear.”

“And by ‘message,’ he means breaking a few bones,” Rumble adds cheerfully. “Maybe more than a few.”

Hatchet looks practically murderous, “If it was up to me, I would rip his spine out through his asshole and then shove his dick deep down his throat. Hurting a woman and babies like that deserves a death that echoes a thousand times in the fiery pits of hell.”

I blink at Hatchet, my eyebrows shooting up. “Wow,” I say slowly. “That’s vivid.”

Rumble gives a low whistle, shaking his head with a crooked grin. “Remind me never to piss you off, man.”

Hatchet grunts, crossing his arms over his chest like he’s daring me to argue with him. “I mean every word,” he says flatly. “Scum like him don’t deserve a slap on the wrist or a ‘stern talking to.’ They deserve pain. Fear. And to know that they’ll never mess with someone again.”

I open my mouth, then close it again. What’s there to say? He might be crude—okay, really crude—but he’s not wrong. My ex has done nothing but haunt me and terrorize my family for far too long.

“Look,” I say after a moment, trying to keep my voice steady as I meet Hatchet’s hard gaze. “I appreciate the enthusiasm, but let’s not go straight to medieval torture, okay? I just want him out of my life. Permanently.”

Hatchet narrows his eyes at me, “Permanently means ensuring he can’t return. Ever.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Rumble interjects with a lazy wave of his hand. “We get it, Hatchet. You’re the king of overkill. Let’s focus on step one before you start planning the guy’s funeral.”

Hatchet scowls but doesn’t argue, which is probably as close to agreement as I will get from him.

“All right,” I say, pushing off the door and straightening my shoulders. “What’s step one?”

“Step one,” Hatchet says, his voice all business now, “is making sure this place is locked down tighter than Fort Knox. No windows open, no doors unlocked. If you hear so much as a squirrel fart outside, you call us. Got it?”

I nod, but Rumble pipes up with a grin before I can say anything. “Squirrel farts are surprisingly loud, you know. Especially the big ones. Like… mutant ninja squirrels.”

I stare at him for a beat, unsure whether to laugh or groan. “Are you serious right now?”

“Dead serious,” he replies, his face completely straight. “You ever hear one of those things? Sounds like a mini leaf blower.”

Hatchet pinches the bridge of his nose like he’s reconsidering all his life choices that led him to this moment. “Rumble,” he growls, his tone warning.

“What?” Rumble shrugs innocently. “I’m just saying she should be prepared for all scenarios.”

“Right,” I interject before Hatchet can explode. “I’ll keep an ear out for suspicious squirrel activity. Anything else?”

Hatchet grunts again—apparently his favorite form of communication—and starts pacing the length of the livingroom. “We’ll do a perimeter sweep,” he says, ignoring Rumble’s comment. “Check for anything out of place. You stay here with the kids and keep them occupied.”

“Occupied,” I echo with a dry chuckle. “Sure. I’ll just whip out my ‘Distract Your Kids While Their Mom Deals with a Deranged Ex’ handbook.”

Rumble grins, clearly enjoying my attempt at humor despite the tension in the room. “I like her,” he says to Hatchet, jerking his thumb in my direction. “She’s got spunk.”

Rumble snickers, but Hatchet just levels me with a stare that could freeze lava. “Spunk doesn’t keep people alive,” he says bluntly. “Focus on what matters.”

“Geez, Hatchet,” I mutter, throwing my hands up. “I’ll make sure the kids don’t start a circus act while you’re out there playing Navy SEAL.”

Rumble doubles over, laughing, clutching his stomach. “Oh man, she’s good! Are you sure you don’t want her in the club full-time? I’d pay to see you two bicker like an old married couple.”

Hatchet shoots him a look that could probably kill a lesser man. “You done?”

“Never,” Rumble wheezes, wiping a tear from his eye.

I glance toward the stairs, and my ears perked for any signs that the kids might’ve overheard our conversation. But all I hear is the faint sound of some cartoon theme song blaring from the TV in Abel’s room. Good.

I heard a motorcycle pull up as I was about to turn back to say something to Hatchet. I go to see who it is, and I am stopped by Hatchet’s arm shooting out like a steel bar across my path. His expression tightens, his jaw flexing as he tilts his head toward Rumble.

“Rumble, check it out,” Hatchet orders, his voice low but commanding.

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