Page 11 of Knot Your Karma (Not Yours #1)

Her organizational system is incredibly detailed—borderline obsessive, actually—but watching her explain why each step matters, I realize this isn’t just about filing.

This is about creating order when everything else in her life feels chaotic.

Classic omega nesting behavior, except instead of blankets and pillows, she’s using invoice systems and catalog cross-references.

The vanilla scent gradually warms and sweetens as we work, and the tension leaves her shoulders. But about forty minutes in, her stomach growls so loudly it sounds like a small angry bear has taken up residence in her abdomen.

“When’s the last time you ate?” I ask, pausing mid-sort through auction catalogs.

She glances up from her perfectly aligned invoice stacks, looking genuinely confused by the question. “I... what time is it?”

“Almost four.”

“Oh.” She blinks like this information doesn’t quite compute. “I had coffee this morning?”

“Coffee is not food, Karma.”

“Coffee with cream is basically a beverage meal,” she says defensively, but her stomach chooses that moment to growl again, completely undermining her argument.

“Right. That settles it.” I pull out my phone. “What do you usually order from wherever delivers around here?”

“You don’t have to?—”

“I’m ordering food. The question is whether you want input on what I get you, or if you trust me to make executive decisions about your nutritional welfare.”

She stares at me like I just offered to reorganize the entire Library of Congress. “You’re going to feed me?”

“I’m going to make sure you eat something that isn’t caffeine-based,” I correct, though something warm settles in my chest at the way she said feed me . Very omega phrasing, that. “Come on, help me out here. What sounds good?”

Her expression goes soft and a little wondering, like random acts of basic human care are foreign concepts. Which, given what she’s hinted about her past, they probably are.

“There’s a Thai place,” she says quietly. “Anchor Bay Thai. They have really good pad see ew, and their tom kha soup is...” She trails off, looking embarrassed. “Sorry. I’m probably being too specific.”

“You’re giving me useful information,” I tell her firmly, already pulling up their menu. “Pad see ew and tom kha soup. Anything else? Spring rolls? We’re talking about an hour of manual labor here—you need actual sustenance.”

“The spring rolls are really good,” she admits, then adds in a rush, “But you really don’t have to do this. I can just grab something later.”

“Karma.” I wait until she looks at me. “I want to buy you lunch. Is that okay?”

She studies my face for a long moment, and I can practically see her internal debate—the part of her that wants to accept care, warring with whatever lessons her past taught her about accepting things from people.

“Okay,” she says finally, and her scent shifts to something warmer, more trusting. “Thank you.”

While we wait for the food, we keep working, and it’s the small touches that really get to me.

She hands me invoices, and our fingers brush.

The contact sends electricity straight through me.

She pauses, her hand lingering against mine for just a heartbeat longer than necessary, before pulling away with pink creeping up her neck.

When the delivery arrives, she insists we eat at her newly organized desk

“See? This is why proper filing systems matter—we have space for actual meals now”, and watching her take that first bite of soup, the way her eyes close and her whole body relaxes like she’s been running on empty for hours, I realize something.

Taking care of her feels as natural as breathing. More than that—it feels necessary, like some fundamental beta instinct I didn’t know I had is finally getting to do what it was designed for.

We finish eating and get back to the filing, but something’s shifted.

She’s more relaxed now, moving with the fluid confidence of someone who’s been properly fed and cared for.

And I’m more aware of everything—how she unconsciously leans closer when reaching for papers, the way she moves with fluid confidence now that she’s been fed and cared for.

“The auction catalogs go here,” she says, creating neat stacks, and when she turns to show me the system, she’s standing close enough that I can see the pulse beating in her throat. “Because I reference them for current market values, but they need to be separated from the historical references.”

“That makes perfect sense,” I agree, trying not to focus on how our shoulders keep bumping as we work. Each contact sends heat through my shirt, and she doesn’t move away. “You really know what you’re doing. This is professional-level organization.”

“Most of the time,” she admits, tension finally leaving her shoulders as the space looks manageable.

When she reaches past me to place a folder on the shelf, her cardigan brushes my forearm, and the soft wool carries her scent like a promise.

“My grandmother taught me everything about maritime antiques. She always said organization is the difference between knowledge and wisdom.”

“Smart woman. She’d be proud of what you’ve built here.” I hand her the last stack of papers, and when she takes them, her fingers linger against mine for just a moment longer than necessary. “This place is incredible, Karma.”

Something soft crosses her expression. “I hope so. Some days I feel like I’m just pretending to be competent while internally screaming into the void.”

“Welcome to fake-it-till-you-make-it adulting,” I say, gesturing at her newly organized space. “The secret is we’re all highly functional disasters with good organizational skills.”

That gets a genuine laugh, and her scent shifts to something warmer, more relaxed. The sound hits me square in the chest—not just the laugh itself, but the way it transforms her whole face, makes her look younger and less guarded. Christ, she’s beautiful when she’s not scared.

I duck my head and focus very intently on the invoices in my hands, because staring at her like a lovesick teenager probably isn’t the professional beta support Declan was hoping for.

But even as we get back to organizing, I keep catching myself glancing up at her when I think she’s not looking.

The way she bites her lower lip when concentrating.

How her fingers linger on certain maritime pieces like they’re old friends.

The little satisfied hum she makes when something slots into place exactly where it belongs.

Each time she catches me looking, I pretend to be examining whatever paperwork is in my hands, but the pink creeping up my neck probably gives me away.

“Can I ask you something?” she says as we finish organizing the last of the paperwork.

“Sure.” I lean against her now-organized desk, keeping my posture open and relaxed.

“Are you always this helpful to complete strangers, or am I just lucky enough to catch you on a day when your savior complex is particularly active?”

I consider this. “Well, technically you stopped being a complete stranger the moment you trusted me to catch you. Plus, I’ve been hearing about the mysterious maritime expert who scrambled my best friend’s brain chemistry.”

And there it is—the exact moment I said something that triggered her anxiety radar. Great job, Reed . “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I know who you are. My business partner’s been talking about you. A lot. ”

The change in her scent is immediate—anxiety flooding back like storm clouds rolling in. Her hand goes to her bracelet again, twisting nervously. “Your business partner?”

“Declan Mitchell,” I say gently, watching her face carefully. “I’m Reed Santos. I work with Second Chances Restoration.”

She sinks into her desk chair like her legs just gave out, and her scent spikes with something that smells like pure panic mixed with existential dread. “Oh god. You’re his backup. The pack he called for help.”

“Whoa, easy there,” I say quickly, automatically shifting into my mediator voice. “I’m the de-escalation specialist in this operation, not the interrogation team.”

“He told you about me?” Her voice is barely a whisper, and she’s gripping the arms of her chair like they’re anchoring her to reality. “Declan?”

“He told me he kissed you during a panic attack and you ran, and now he’s sitting in his hotel room convinced he ruined everything.” I pull the chair closer and sit down, making myself less imposing. “He’s worried about you, Karma. That’s why I’m here—just to check that you’re okay.”

“I’m not okay,” she says, gripping the edge of her desk. “I’m definitely not okay. This whole situation is completely insane, and I don’t know how to handle any of it.”

“What situation?” I ask gently. “What’s got you this scared?”

She’s quiet for a long moment, and I can see her internal struggle written across her face. Her hand keeps going to that bracelet, twisting it like a lifeline.

“Someone hurt you,” I say quietly.

“Yeah.” She sinks deeper into her chair, the fight going out of her all at once. “Someone I trusted completely. Someone who made me believe in forever right up until the moment he destroyed everything.”

“What happened? ”

For a moment, I think she’s going to tell me. The words seem right there, desperate to escape. But then she looks at me—really looks at me, with genuine care and something that might be hope—and something in her expression crumbles.

“I can’t,” she whispers. “I’m sorry, Reed. I want to trust you, I do, but I can’t. Not yet.”

“Okay.” I don’t push, don’t demand explanations. Just accept her boundaries like they matter. Because they fucking do. “When you’re ready.”

“What if I’m never ready? What if the thing I did is too terrible to forgive?”

The raw pain in her voice makes my chest ache. Whatever she’s carrying, it’s eating her alive.

“Then we’ll figure it out when we get there,” I say simply. “But Karma? Whatever it is, it doesn’t change the fact that you’re worth caring about.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know you fell off a ladder trying to reach something for your shop. I know you organize maritime antiques with the same care most people reserve for handling newborns. I know you trusted me to catch you, and you let me help you fix your office when you were falling apart.” I lean forward slightly, keeping my voice gentle.

“I know you smell like vanilla and sea salt and something that makes me want to protect you from whatever’s got you this scared. ”

Tears gather in her eyes, and her scent shifts to something that smells like she wants to believe me but doesn’t dare.

“I think you should go,” she says, not meeting my eyes. “Thank you for helping with the office, and for not letting me fall off a ladder, but I think you should go back to Declan and tell him I’m fine.”

“I’m not leaving you like this.”

“You have to.” She finally looks at me, and the pain in her expression nearly levels me. “Because you’re looking at me like I’m something worth protecting. And when you find out what I’ve done, you’ll look at me the same way everyone else does when they realize what I’m really like.”

I stand there for a moment, every instinct screaming at me to comfort her, to fix whatever’s broken, to create the safety she desperately needs. But I also recognize the walls she’s throwing up.

“Okay,” I say finally, moving toward the door. “But Karma?”

“Yeah?”

“Dec’s going to keep looking for you because he’s got that whole noble alpha thing going on. So do I and I know Adrian will feel the same way. And whatever you think you’ve done that’s so terrible? I’ve seen pack forgive worse. Trust issues run deep with us, but so does loyalty.”

Three men? Declan. Reed. And this mysterious Adrian.

“You don’t know that.”

“I know him. And I know that if you matter to him the way I think you do, he’s going to want to figure out how to fix whatever’s broken.” I pause at the door. “We both are.”

She doesn’t respond, just stands there hugging herself while her scent fills the air with longing and fear and something else—something that smells like she wants to believe me.

I leave, but I keep catching myself looking over my shoulder toward her shop. My chest feels too tight, like someone rearranged my ribcage while I wasn’t paying attention.

Adrian’s waiting by the inn entrance, takes one look at my face, and raises an eyebrow. “That bad?”

“Worse.” I run a hand through my hair. “She’s perfect for us, she’s terrified of us, and she has every reason to be.”

“What happened to her?”

“Someone she trusted completely destroyed her. And whatever she thinks she’s done in response, she believes it makes her unforgivable. ”

Adrian’s jaw tightens, and the scent of controlled fury drifts between us.

“Dec’s going to want to fix this,” he says.

“Yeah.” I glance back toward Main Street one more time. “Problem is, I’m not sure she’s going to let him.”