Page 25 of Wolf's Whisper

“I’m fine,” I manage to choke out, though I know I’m far from it. My hands tremble as I clutch the paper, my mind racing. “He—he’s escalating, isn’t he?”

Tank nods grimly. “Looks that way. Wolf’s not gonna like this when she hears.”

I blink up at him, my throat tightening. “Don’t tell her yet. I don’t know what she is doing, and if she is distracted, will she be in danger?”

“Are you kidding me?” Tank growls, his massive form towering over me like a human shield. “We’re telling her. This isn’t something you keep quiet about, Janelle. Wolf would kill me if she found out I didn’t let her know.”

I open my mouth to argue, but the look in his eyes silences me. He’s serious, and I know he’s right. Wolf would want to know—no, she needs to know. But the thought of adding more weight to her plate makes my chest ache.

“Okay,” I say finally, my voice barely above a whisper. “But don’t tell her until she’s back. I don’t want her distracted while she’s out there.”

Tank doesn’t look thrilled with my compromise, but he nods reluctantly. “Fine. But the second she gets back, she’s gonna hear about this, and until then, I let Pres know.”

I nod, my eyes still glued to the drawing in my hands. The crude lines feel like they’re burning into my skin, a constant reminder of the man who refuses to let me go.

Tank hesitates momentarily, then places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “He is sending Hatchet and Rumble here. Don’t worry, we’ll handle this,” he says firmly. “You’re not alone in this fight, Janelle.”

His words are meant to comfort me, and maybe they do, but the weight of the situation still presses down on me like a heavy stone. Even though my chest feels tight, I nod and force myself to meet Tank’s gaze. "Thanks," I murmur. "Really."

Tank gives me a curt nod, his hand squeezing my shoulder briefly before he steps back toward the door. "They’ll be here soon. Just keep the kids busy and stay in the house and away from the windows until Hatchet and Rumble show up," he says, his voice all business now.

"Got it," I reply, clutching the paper so tightly that it crinkles under my fingers. As Tank leaves, shutting the door behind him, I lean against it for support, closing my eyes for a moment to steady myself.

"Mom?" Abel’s voice snaps me out of my spiraling thoughts. He’s standing at the bottom of the stairs, his face twisted with concern as he looks at me. "Are you okay?"

I force a smile, pushing the fear deep down where it can't reach him. "Yeah, buddy, I’m okay," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "Just grown-up stuff. Nothing to worry about."

He doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t push either. Abel’s always been the most perceptive of the three, but he is sometimes too mature for his age. "Okay," he says slowly, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Do you need help with anything?"

I walk over and ruffle his hair again, needing the normalcy of the small gesture. "Nope. I just need you, your brother, and your sister to play in your rooms please."

"Sure," he says, though there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—worry, maybe? I hate that they’ve had to grow up with this shadow hanging over them.

Once he disappears back up the stairs, I exhale deeply, letting myself sink against the door momentarily. My heart is still hammering like an offbeat drum in my chest, but I don’t havetime to fall apart. Not now. Not when the kids are upstairs and expecting me to hold it together.

The sound of a motorcycle roaring outside snaps me out of it. My head jerks toward the window, and I peek through the curtain. Hatchet’s already pulling his bike into the driveway, his massive frame unmistakable even with his helmet on. Rumble isn’t far behind him, parking next to him with a smirk that somehow manages to be reassuring and unnerving.

I brace myself as they approach the door, not bothering to knock before stepping inside—because they wouldn’t. This is their territory now as much as it is mine.

“Evening,” Hatchet grunts, nodding at me as he shuts the door behind him. His eyes sweep over me, assessing like he’s trying to figure out if I’m about to crumble into a million pieces. “You look like hell.”

“Gee, thanks,” I shoot back, crossing my arms over my chest. “Always nice to get compliments.”

Rumble snorts, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. “We aim to please.”

“Cut the crap,” Hatchet growls, his gaze flicking toward the stairs before settling back on me. “Tank filled us in. Where’s the paper?”

I don’t hesitate to hand it over, and Hatchet takes it with a grim expression, unfolding it like it might bite him. His jaw tightens as his eyes scan the crude drawing.

“This guy’s a real piece of work,” Rumble mutters, craning his neck to peek at the paper. “Stick figures? Really? What is he, five?”

“Yeah, well, five-year-olds don’t usually draw themselves holding knives,” I point out flatly, my voice sharper than I intended. “And they don’t stalk their exes either.”

Rumble shrugs, unfazed. "Fair point." He tilts his head toward Hatchet. "You think he’s close, or is this just another one of his little mind games?"

Hatchet folds the paper back up and stuffs it into his pocket. His face is like granite—hard and unreadable. “Doesn’t matter. Close or not, we treat him the same way. Like a threat.”

I swallow hard, and my mouth suddenly dried. “So what’s the plan?”

---