Page 36 of The Shield
Atlas rose to his feet, his height filling the room, his hands lifting in a gesture meant to calm. "No, it’s nothing like that."
His tone was firm, intended to reassure, but it did little to quell the fire building inside me. My patience frayed, and I brought my fist down onto the table, the sound reverberating off the walls. In any other setting, that would have drawn gasps or disapproval—people recoiling, voices rising in protest. But here, nearly every face around the table broke into a grin, a shared amusement flickering in their eyes, as if they held a secret I hadn’t yet uncovered.
"What?" I demanded, my voice rough with a mix of frustration and confusion.
Atlas’s grin softened, his gaze steady on mine. "You’re one of us, Ethan."
I stared at him, the words failing to take root. "What the hell does that mean?"
More glances passed between the seven men, a silent understanding weaving through them.
An unease began to settle over me, a cold sensation creeping from my gut to my feet, as if I’d been led into a room meant to remain hidden, locked away and forgotten.
Atlas leaned forward, his voice low and deliberate. "Ethan, you’re one of us because we’re family. You, too."
I still didn’t grasp it, the unease digging deeper into my bones. "What are you talking about?" I pressed, my voice tightening with impatience.
Atlas held my gaze, his expression straightforward and unadorned. "Your brothers Jacob and Caleb already know. We’re all Danes—every one of us."
The words hung there, a puzzle that didn’t fit at first, a jumble that refused to align. Then I looked around the room, meeting each pair of eyes—Ryker’s restless intensity, Marcus’s mischievous focus, Atlas’s commanding calm, Elias’s playfulspark, Noah’s patient watchfulness, Charlie’s warm ease, and Silas’s cold, predatory glint.
And there it was, as clear as memory—the eyes of my father, that familiar crooked grin, the way he’d lean sideways in his office chair with one boot hooked over his knee, a habit I’d buried until this moment. I’d felt it all along, a pull I couldn’t name, and for reasons I couldn’t yet explain, the anger I’d braced for didn’t surface. Instead, a calm washed over me, a quiet acceptance settling into places I hadn’t known were empty.
"Well, I’ll be damned," I said, the words slipping out softly, carrying a weight of realization as the world inside me paused, the air thick with the promise of an unfolding future.
15
NATALIE
By evening, the rain had the city talking to itself—drumming on awnings, whispering in oaks, slicking the brick until the sidewalks looked lacquered. The Emergency Operations Center lights were on now (officially-unofficially, then officially), Huck had cones on the trucks, and Kimmy’s live stream numbers kept climbing until the comments felt like a crowd you could hear breathing.
I stood under a pop-up tent someone had dragged to the corner by City Hall and watched water gather exactly where it always did—curbs that lied, crowns that failed, drains that coughed oak threads like hairballs. People kept walking up, asking what they could do, and I kept handing them easy verbs. Move. Lift. Check. Text.
Under it all, a quieter thing pulsed: the memory of Ethan in my shower, the way my body had finally done the one thing it had never done with a man—let go. It wasn’t just the pleasure—God, the pleasure— it was the way it shook something loose in me I’d kept clenched for years. I had spent whole seasonsmanaging myself small. In the water with him, I’d learned how to take up space and not apologize.
Forward only.
Kimmy slipped a battery pack into my palm and tucked my hair behind my ear like a fussy sister. “You’ve got reporters stacking,” she said, eyes bright. “I told them you’re doing three hits, then a break.”
“Make them say ‘do not drive through standing water’ before they say my name,” I said.
“Bossy. Hot.” She squeezed my elbow. “And Nat? You looked like a mayor out there.”
I rolled that over my tongue without swallowing. The word snagged in the softest, sorest place.
I’d never thought about it before. At least, not consciously. But maybe the idea had always lived somewhere in the back of my mind. It was a family thing, after all.
A cameraman waved. I stepped to the mic and gave the same sermon I’d written at my desk: park higher, clear drains, don’t tempt physics, we’re standing up sandbag stations here, here, and here. A second crew asked if the city was “ready.” I gave them the honest answer: “We’re as ready as neighbors make us.” The third asked, “Any truth to rumors you might run in the special election?”
My mouth opened, then closed. Somewhere behind the cameras, someone hooted like they’d tossed a dare into a bar.
Before I could choose a lane, the crowd split the way crowds did for him, and Granddaddy stepped into view, umbrella cocked, linen jacket damp at the shoulders, grin turned up to twelve. Butch Kennedy gathered attention like cotton on a pant leg.
“Ask me about rumors,” he boomed, not even pretending he wasn’t delighted. “My granddaughter can run a city with a pencil stub and stubbornness.”
Laughter, warm and instant. Cameras pivoted like birds.
“She’s the best planner in twelve counties,” he went on, expansive. “Ask anybody with a dry living room.”
