Chapter 3 Clauses and Claws

Maia

The Council room smelled of wax and old books; the wood of the furniture held memories of decisions that had cost lives. I sat down at the table with the same calm as someone placing a dressing: firm, unhurried, knowing that every gesture mattered. Rafael D'Ávila was on the other side, motionless like a domesticated shadow, his fingers intertwined over the folder where the clauses awaited my signature. Around us, three Council witnesses - men and women with eyes hard as blades - took notes in silence.

I didn't come to be saved; I came to negotiate my family's survival. That sentence spun in my head as I rolled up the sleeves of the lab coat hidden beneath my overcoat. The lab coat reminded me of who I was when the world weighed too heavily: nurse, sister, daughter. The overcoat was now the mask I wore to enter hostile territory.

"Maia Duarte," Murilo began, his voice as austere as ever. "We are here to formalize the agreed terms between the D'Ávila pack and the Duarte family. Do you wish for any clarifications before registering?"

Rafael didn't answer; his silence weighed more than any word. I took a breath, felt the cold air glide, and got straight to the point.

"I want it stated, first and foremost, that I do not waive my job." I spoke firmly. "I have shifts. I have an oath to lives. I demand a guarantee that I can continue working, with transfers and schedules preserved, without it being used against me as currency in other negotiations."

The Council man frowned, as if calculating risks. Rafael tightened his jaw, but did not intervene. The pack could buy cities; they could not immediately buy my right to keep dressings on my hands.

"That is... unusual," Murilo said. "The public presence of an Omega linked to the D'Ávila name tends to be monitored."

"Unusual is not impossible," I replied. "I ask for an express clause: guarantee in writing the maintenance of my shifts and that, should transfers or schedules be revoked, any change will be communicated with thirty days' notice and with a formal justification signed by the responsible Councilor."

Rafael leaned forward, irritation scratching beneath his eyes. Not because I dared to ask - he expected negotiation - but because I imposed limits where many would kneel. His expression hardened, and I smiled inwardly upon recognizing the effect.

"And my studies," I continued, advancing a track. "I'm doing a nighttime specialization. I need free hours for this and logistical support when there's a shift change. I don't deny the alliance; I deny being erased by the process."

"Studies?" someone muttered, almost with disdain.

"Yes." My hands traced the word as if carving it into wood. "I want compatible hours included as part of the contract, three guaranteed monthly days off for exams or academic activities, and the right to maintain contact with the hospital board without censorship from the pack, except in proven security situations."

The Council consulted papers, exchanging glances. Subtle calculations were happening: reputation versus benefit. Rafael finally spoke, his voice low, controlled - but with a stone in its tone.

"I do not dwell on agreements that weaken me. Protection is a priority. But this can be made viable with joint supervision. Your contribution to the pack will be considered."

"Joint supervision?" I repeated, arching my eyebrows. "I do not deny accountability for what is necessary for security. But I do not accept 'supervision' as a pretext to restrict my autonomy."

He bit his tongue, like someone holding back sharp answers. The chair creaked under the weight of the tension; I felt the alpha's presence near me, not by touch, but by wave. Rafael didn't like to be contradicted - few did - and even less to have his authority challenged by a woman who wouldn't tremble.

I then presented my list of personal limits. I would not accept unannounced visits to my residence. I would not allow intimate interrogations to turn into public humiliation. I demanded the maintenance of my medical and psychological privacy. I also requested that any symbolic mark - if agreed upon - be preceded by a private conversation, with the presence of a neutral lawyer and a Council representative.

There was a long, almost ritual silence. Rafael clenched his fingers. His irritation transformed into another movement: calculation. Every "no" I pronounced opened a crack in the narrative he tried to build - that he owned me entirely. With each clause of mine, we exposed a map of what each one valued in terms of power.

"You are demanding," he said, and the phrase was both a statement and an accusation.

"I am demanded by my necessity," I retorted. "And I do not accept that my necessity be reduced to a signing currency."

Murilo took a deep breath and read out the new clauses. The witnesses took notes. My brother Heitor stood next to the door, his face pale, his hands trembling. When Murilo read that the Duarte family would be guaranteed conditional immunity in exchange for cooperation in locating the supplier of the compromised routes, Heitor finally spoke.

"I'll go off the radar." His voice was a thread. "I'll disappear. I won't leave Aunt's house again. I won't answer anyone. I promise."

His promise burned in me like gasoline and hope at the same time. The price the boy would pay made me feel the whole world tighten. I pulled him close in a gesture that was more warmth than word.

"Stay alive," I whispered. "And if anything happens, you call me and run. Understood?"

He nodded, as if life was now a script. I watched him disappear out the door, and a void took its place that not even the contract could fill.

The pens were made available. The first version of the document was reviewed. We crossed out, replaced, clarified with legal terms and with everyday language when the law needed to understand the human. I made sure to insert the clause that prohibited any mark without my express consent and with neutral witnesses, and I requested the inclusion of an article about maintaining my shifts and studies.

When I put the pen to the paper, I felt the same cold I had felt over the blade of a scalpel for the first time: the responsibility of one who decides to heal or to cut. I signed. Murilo signed. Rafael signed with the same firm handwriting with which he issued orders; his line seemed to slice the page.

Leaving the room, darkened and full of documents, I felt a weight that was not just relief. There was victory - mine - and there was the price. The world watched us, silent. The street welcomed me with a breath of humid air. I picked up my cell phone. A message blinked on the screen: no sender, no exact time.

"the contract will not save you."

My stomach contracted, as if the claws of the night had closed around me. I read it again. The sentence was simple and poisonous. I didn't know who sent it, but I knew where the intention came from: the threat that didn't need to name the enemy.

I felt, from afar, the weight of Rafael's gaze crossing the city. He didn't hide his irritation when I wouldn't bow - and now, more than irritation, there was something like a warning in his compressed cheeks. I didn't like what that meant for what was yet to come.

I lit a cigarette - a gesture forbidden since childhood, but useful for thinking - and let the smoke rise before putting it out. The pack gave me a safety net, yes. But the message showed that the line between protection and prison was razor-thin. I would not bow my head. Not yet.

There were claws everywhere. And I, for now, had my own.