The Protection Clause — Munro
760 Words
Protection isn't mercy.
It's authority.
People confuse the two because mercy feels softer.
Protection isn't. It draws lines. It decides who is allowed to exist inside them.
I walk her through the compound without explanation. Let her absorb it — the weight of eyes, the way men straighten when they see me, the recalculation when they notice her. No one speaks. They don't need to.
She keeps pace beside me. That alone is telling.
The room I assign her isn't a cell.
I won't cage her — not yet. It's a secured quarters near the inner offices, walls etched with passive wards that hum low enough most humans never notice. She does. Her gaze lingers on the sigils.
Of course it does.
"This is where you stay," I tell her, closing the door behind us.
Not locking it.
She turns slowly, taking in the bed, the table bolted to the floor, the narrow barred window.
"You keep all your guests like this?" she asks.
"I don't keep guests."
She exhales through her nose, then looks at me directly. "You never asked why I was here."
I study her for a long moment. The pressure stays quiet. Watching.
"Why." I say.
"My brother's bike," she answers immediately. "It went missing three weeks ago."
That isn't what I expected.
I stay still."Explain."
"He rides a black Ironhead. Custom tank. Raven on the side." Her voice tightens. "It disappeared from our apartment lot. No broken lock. No noise. Just gone."
"And that led you here," I say.
She nods. "People talk. Bars talk more. Someone mentioned a black Ironhead being see near this place. Said if it vanished clean, it probably ended up behind MC walls."
Smart. Reckless. Accurate enough to be dangerous.
"You thought breaking into a motorcycle club compound was the logical next step."
"I thought asking wouldn't get me anywhere," she says. "And I was right."
I don't argue.
"And the chanting?" I ask.
Her brow furrows. "I followed the bike trail to the old service entrance. The sound started there. I thought maybe someone was hurt. Or... I don't know. Guarding something."
She doesn't say ritual.
She doesn't have the language for it. But she felt it all the same.
"You understand what would've happened if I didn't show up when I did," I say.
"Yes."
No hesitation. No dramatics.
That tightens something in my chest I don't appreciate.
"This isn't a scavenger hunt," I tell her. "You trespassed on protected ground."
"And you dragged me out instead of killing me," she counters. "So I'm guessing the bike isn't the real reason you're upset."
Sharp.
I step closer. "Anyway, you're under my protection now."
Her shoulders tense at the reminder. "What does that fully mean?"
"It means you don't leave the compound without me," I say. "You don't wonder. You don't touch anything marked or bound. You don't ask questions of people who aren't me."
"And my brother?"
The question is quiet. Vulnerable. It costs her something to ask.
"If his bike is here," I say, "I'll find it."
Her eyes search my face, looking for a lie.
She won't find one. I don't offer promises lightly.
A knock cuts through the moment.
"Enter," I say.
Chris opens the door and freezes when he sees her.
"Didn't know we were hosting guests," he says.
"You still don't," I reply.
His gaze flicks back to her — curious, assessing.
The ink tightens along my arms.
"She's under my protection." I say flatly. "That extends to conversation, memory, and curiosity."
Chris straightens immediately.
"Understood."
The door shuts.
She exhales slowly.
"You'll stay here," I continue. "Food will be brought. If you need something, you ask me."
"And if I don't trust you?"
I meet her gaze. "Then you survive long enough to learn better."
I turn to leave.
Behind me, she speaks again.
"You're really going to help me?"
I pause at the door.
"What's your name?"
The question hangs between us — flat, unsoftened.
She hesitates only a second.
"Lila."
I nod once. That's all. As if the knowledge doesn't matter.
"If the bike is here," I say, "you'll get it back."
I don't add the rest — that if it isn't, something worse happened to it. Or that the ritual she interrupted may have already marked her far more deeply than theft ever could.
I leave the room.
In the hallway, the bindings along my ribs burn — sharp, insistent.
Not warning.
Claim.
And for the first time in decades, I'm not sure which of us needs protection more.
- Writer
