Page 14 of Knot Your Karma (Not Yours #1)

Karma

The walk home from The Daily Grind gives me time to process everything—Declan’s kiss, Reed’s almost-kiss, and according to Reed, there’s a third one coming.

I just want to get inside my blue Victorian and pretend I’m a normal antique shop owner who doesn’t have complicated feelings about an entire pack.

The first drops of rain hit when I’m halfway up my front walk. I quicken my pace, digging through my purse for keys while the wind picks up and sends leaves skittering across the porch.

Keys, keys, where are my?—

I find them at the bottom of my bag, mixed up with receipts and business cards. My hands are already damp from the rain as I try to fit the key into the lock.

It doesn’t turn.

Come on, I think, jiggling the key while rain starts soaking through my cardigan. This is not the time for Victorian house dramatics.

I try again, and the key won’t even go in properly. That’s when I realize my mistake—in my post-Reed flustered state, I grabbed my shop keys instead of my house keys .

“Perfect,” I mutter as the rain turns from annoying drizzle to serious downpour. “Just absolutely perfect. Because today wasn’t complicated enough already.”

I dig through my purse again, hoping against hope that my house keys are hiding somewhere in the depths, but no luck. I’m locked out of my own house in an October storm, wearing a cardigan that’s about as waterproof as tissue paper.

This is what I get for having the most emotionally complicated day of my life.

I’m trying to figure out if I can break into my own house without looking like an actual burglar when I hear footsteps on the gravel walkway. Heavy boots, purposeful stride, heading straight for my front yard.

My heart jumps into my throat. It’s past eight o’clock, it’s pouring rain, and someone is walking up to my house in the dark. All my urban survival instincts kick in at once.

Nope. Absolutely not. Not today.

I press myself against the front door and try to make myself invisible, but the footsteps are getting closer. A dark figure emerges from the rain, tall and broad-shouldered, moving with the kind of confidence that says he knows exactly where he’s going.

Oh hell no.

When he turns toward the porch, I move.

I’ve never been in a real fight in my life, but growing up in Providence taught me a few basic rules. Surprise is your friend, aim for vulnerable spots, and if someone’s threatening you on your own property, you don’t wait to see what they want.

I launch myself off the porch with what I later realize was probably the most undignified war cry in human history—something between a pterodactyl screech and a dying cat.

We go down in a tangle of limbs and outraged yelping that probably wakes half the neighborhood and will definitely be tomorrow’s hot gossip topic.

Cold earth and wet grass immediately soak through my jeans because the universe has decided that being emotionally overwhelmed isn’t enough—I also need to be physically uncomfortable.

My pulse hammers so hard I can hear it over the rain as adrenaline floods my system, making everything feel hyperreal—the smell of wet earth, the sound of his breathing, the way the cold rain tastes like panic and poor life choices on my lips.

My knee connects solidly with his groin—twice—and he makes a sound that’s part groan, part wheeze, doubling over in the mud.

“Stay down!” I shout over the rain, scrambling to my feet on unsteady legs. My hands shake as the adrenaline crashes through me—I’ve never actually attacked anyone before, and the reality of it makes my knees wobble. “I’ve called the police! They’re on their way!”

I haven’t called the police because my phone is dead and I’m locked out of my house, but he doesn’t need to know that.

“Jesus,” the man gasps from the ground, his voice strained but somehow... not threatening. It’s deep and measured, with an accent that’s definitely not local. “I’m not trying to hurt you.”

Something about his tone makes me pause. More importantly, it doesn’t sound like the voice of someone who means me harm.

But my pulse is still hammering from adrenaline, and my hands won’t stop shaking.

“Then what are you doing lurking around my front yard in the dark?” I demand, still poised to run if necessary.

“Looking for you,” he says simply, slowly pushing himself up to sitting position in the mud. “Reed gave me your address.”

Reed sent?—

Lightning flashes again, and for a split second I can see him clearly through the rain-soaked disaster that is my evening.

Tall, broad-shouldered, dark hair plastered to his head by the storm like he’s auditioning for some kind of brooding romance novel cover.

Work clothes, tool belt, the same kind of practical boots that Declan wears, which should probably be my first clue about who this is, except my brain is still operating at about fifteen percent capacity.

Oh no. Oh no no no.

“Adrian?” I whisper, and my voice comes out squeaky with horror.

“That’s me,” he confirms, wiping mud from his face with remarkable patience.

He unfolds from the ground like he’s been sleeping there instead of tackled into mud.

Even soaked and clearly in pain, he moves with that particular grace big men have when they’re completely comfortable in their own skin.

“And you must be Karma. Reed said you were... spirited. He didn’t mention excellent defensive instincts. I’m kind of proud.”

I just attacked the third pack member. I just kneed Adrian Blackwood in the groin twice and took him down in my front yard like some kind of deranged omega warrior.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” The words tumble out in a panicked rush.

“I thought you were a burglar or a serial killer or someone trying to break into my house, and it’s dark and pouring and you were just standing there looking all tall and intimidating, and I have terrible fight-or-flight instincts that apparently lean heavily toward fight, and oh my god, did I seriously just knee you in the groin?

Twice? Are you okay? Do you need ice? Should I call someone?

Reed is going to kill me when he finds out I attacked you! ”

“Breathe,” Adrian says in that same tone people use to calm spooked horses.

My breathing immediately slows to match his, like my lungs just remembered how to work properly.

When he’s on his feet, I realize he’s even taller than Declan, but something about his presence feels less overwhelming.

More grounding. “I’ll live. Though I have to say, that’s not usually how I prefer to meet people. ”

“I am so, so sorry. You scared me and I reacted without thinking and?—”

“Hey.” His voice cuts through my panic. “You protected yourself. That’s smart, not something to apologize for.”

I stare at him through the rain, and even covered in mud and clearly in pain, there’s something grounding about him. He’s not angry. He’s not threatening. He’s just... steady. Like a tree you could lean against during a storm.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, having to raise my voice over the thunder. “How did you even find my house?”

“Reed thought I might want to meet you.” Adrian glances around at the storm, then back at me with what might be the ghost of a smile. “What are you doing out here getting soaked?”

“I’m locked out,” I admit, feeling completely ridiculous. “I grabbed the wrong keys and now I can’t get in my house and it’s pouring and I probably look like a drowned rat and I just attacked someone who was trying to... wait. Reed thought you might want to meet me?”

Something shifts in Adrian’s expression—not quite embarrassment, but definitely self-consciousness. Rain drips from his dark hair, and I notice his eyes are gray like storm clouds. “He mentioned you two... connected. Said meeting you felt like finding something he didn’t know he was looking for.”

Oh. Oh.

Heat floods my face so fast I probably look like a tomato. “He told you about that?”

“Pack shares important information,” Adrian says simply. “Especially about potential connections.”

The word pack makes me sit up straighter against my locked door.

I don’t mean to—my spine just straightens like someone called my name from across a crowded room.

The way he says it, looking directly at me through the rain with those storm-gray eyes, makes my stomach flip.

Not just casual curiosity. Personal interest.

“So you came to check me out,” I say, and it’s not really a question.

“I came to see if Reed was right about the chemistry,” Adrian admits. “Though getting tackled in your front yard wasn’t exactly part of the plan.”

I find myself almost smiling. “And?”

“And what?”

“Was he right?”

Adrian looks at me for a long moment—soaked and muddy and probably looking like a disaster, standing in my front yard in a downpour. When he speaks, his voice is quieter, more careful. “Ask me again when we’re both dry and I can think about something other than the pain.”

I actually laugh at that. “Fair enough.”

“Come on.” He jerks his head toward my very locked door.

“Come on where?”

“Inside. You’re soaked and it’s cold.” He pulls something from his pocket—a small leather case filled with thin metal tools. “Old house locks are my specialty.”

Of course he can pick locks. Of course the third pack member is not only gorgeous but also mysteriously competent at breaking and entering.

“Is that... legal?”

“It’s your house,” he points out reasonably. “Just solving a problem.”

He moves to the front door with the same purposeful confidence he showed walking up the driveway, and I follow, still dripping and trying to process what just happened.

He examines the lock for about thirty seconds, his movements precise and economical, then selects a tool and starts working with the kind of focused concentration that suggests he’s done this before .

“Construction work,” he explains, selecting another tool. “Get locked out of jobsites. Occupational hazard.”