Page 21 of The Shield
Time seemed to slow, raindrops hanging in the air, his finger trembling on the trigger. His eyes were glassy, beady, pupils dilated wide—caught in the grip of whatever drug fueled him. Stains yellowed the cuffs of his hoodie, the threads frayed at the hems, his shoes worn thin with soles flapping loose on one foot. A twitch ran through his jaw, sweat mixing with the rain, his breathing ragged like that of a cornered animal.
"Give it up," I said, my voice low and steady, my knee pressing into his spine. The alley was a dead-end, the rain drowning out any distant shouts, leaving just the two of us, the patter loud in my ears.
"Fuck you," he spat, the gun wavering erratically. "Back off, man. Ain’t worth it."
"It’s hers."
My eyes stayed locked on him, taking in every detail: the way his free hand clenched, the tremor in his trigger finger, the sharpscent of fear-sweat cutting through the chemical haze. I should have backed away. Let it go. The purse wasn’t worth a bullet.
But it was hers. Natalie.
That thought anchored me, the world narrowing to the twitch of his hand, the glint of the gun.
He drooled slightly, his voice slurring. "Gonna shoot your ass."
"Try it." I shifted closer, reading the panic in his dilated eyes, waiting for the move.
I lunged as the gun barked—a sharp crack splitting the rain, a muzzle flash lighting the gray, the bullet whining high into the sky. My hand clamped down on his wrist mid-recoil, crushing hard, the bones grinding beneath my grip.
He howled, the gun slipping free to clatter on the ground. My fist followed—tight and direct to his jaw, the impact traveling up my arm. He went limp, lights out, collapsing to the wet pavement.
I stood there, my breathing even, the adrenaline settling into a quiet hum. I checked his pulse—weak but present, his chest rising slowly.
Kicking the gun aside, I retrieved the purse, rising to my feet and wiping the rain from my face as the alley came back into focus.
I turned.
Natalie stood at the mouth of the alley, her gaze fixed on me. Rain plastered her dress against her frame, her hair falling in dark strands across her cheeks, her eyes wide with a mix of shock, fear, and something fiercer I couldn’t name. I couldn’t read it—couldn’t tell if she saw a savior or something else entirely.
The weight of her look pressed heavier than the downpour surrounding us.
9
NATALIE
For a beat, the world was only the sound of rain.
It came down in a hard, steady sheet now, turning the alley into a gray tunnel, slicking the brick, silvering the puddles.
The man who’d grabbed my purse lay crumpled at Ethan’s boots, the gun kicked far enough away that it looked ridiculous—cheap metal in a river of water. Steam lifted from his skin where the rain hit, or maybe that was my eyes doing something dumb. My pulse thudded high and hot in my throat.
Ethan stood over him, breathing even. Not winded. Not shaken. Just present. The rain ran in clean lines down his face, flattening his shirt to his chest, mapping the muscles there in a way that had no business being legal in daylight. The bear claw glinted dark and dangerous against his sternum. The veins in his forearms stood up, the skin there nicked and old-scarred and beautiful, the kind of map I wanted to trace with my mouth.
He bent, picked up my purse, and straightened in one smooth line. When he turned, the violence fell away like he’d hung it on a nail and walked out of the room.
He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t need to. His eyes found me and did something far worse—gentler, and somehow more devastating.
“You okay?” he asked.
Two words. Nothing fancy. I felt them all the way to the backs of my knees.
I nodded, because my voice wasn’t trustworthy. The dress I’d congratulated myself on twenty minutes ago clung indecently to my body now, thin cotton pasted to skin, the neckline a soft curve that suddenly felt like an offering. He didn’t ogle. He took inventory, the way he had before—scanning for blood, for limps, for a fracture I hadn’t felt yet.
His hand came up like he was going to touch my face and then stopped, hovering, heat without contact. The restraint made me sway.
“Your hands,” he said, quieter. “You’re shaking.”
“So are you,” I said, and it was almost true. Not his hands. The air around him, fine with charge.
