Page 21 of Knot Your Karma (Not Yours #1)

Karma

Sunlight stabs through my bedroom curtains like it’s personally offended by my life choices and has decided to file a formal complaint directly with my eyeballs.

October morning light has no business being this vindictive, but apparently the universe has very strong opinions about wine-bottle surgery and emotional breakdowns involving power tools.

I roll over and immediately regret every decision that led to this moment. My mouth tastes like I’ve been licking cork residue off concrete, there’s definitely a tiny construction crew jackhammering behind my eyeballs, and according to my phone, it’s two o’clock in the afternoon.

“Oh, God,” I groan into my pillow, pressing the heels of my palms against my temples. “This is what I get for drinking my feelings instead of dealing with them like a functional adult human being.”

Hangovers make everything worse for omegas—scents too sharp, emotions too raw, anxiety sitting just under my skin like static electricity looking for somewhere to ground. Even my grandmother’s familiar honeyed candle smells wrong, too sweet and cloying instead of comforting .

I reach for my phone to check the time again, and the screen lights up with approximately seventeen missed messages. My pulse hammers so hard the neighbors probably filed a noise complaint.

The group chat notification makes my stomach drop into my shoes and possibly through the floor.

Compass Recovery Declan, Reed, Adrian, Karma

I scroll up to see when this started, and apparently they’ve been texting since nine this morning while I was unconscious from wine therapy and self-loathing.

Declan: Found the bastard who has it. Sterling Ashworth. Rich collector, thinks he’s untouchable.

Reed: Please tell me this doesn’t end with me calling my m?e to explain why her son is in federal prison.

Adrian: It won’t.

Declan: Guy won’t sell. But there’s an auction tonight. Invitation only.

Reed: Opportunity is your favorite word right before I need bail money and excellent lawyers who specialize in international incidents.

Declan: Black market maritime network. Sage got us invitations. Sometimes public pressure changes minds about questionable pieces.

My blood turns to ice water in my veins, which would be more poetic if it wasn’t accompanied by the distinct feeling that my soul just evacuated my body through my feet .

They’re not just talking about any auction—they’re talking about entering the exact criminal network I’ve been hiding from like it’s my own personal nightmare fuel.

The same network where Sage moves stolen goods and people definitely recognize faces and ask the kind of uncomfortable questions that end with people disappearing permanently.

My scent glands burn with the acrid smell of fear mixed with guilt—omega distress that I can’t suppress no matter how much I try to project calm.

That bitch set me up.

Reed: So we’re infiltrating shady antique dealers to convince someone to sell us back a family heirloom.

Declan: Eight PM. Harbor district gallery. Cocktail attire required because crime has dress codes.

Adrian: Karma comes with us.

Reed: Agreed. We need someone who actually knows what they’re talking about instead of three men with good intentions and questionable judgment calls.

Declan: She’s the expert. We’re just the muscle and charm.

Adrian: She stays close to me.

I start typing and deleting responses, my fingers fumbling against the screen while my wine-addled brain struggles to figure out how to handle this without confessing everything via group text.

Karma: Just saw your messages. Wine headache but functional. This sounds... complicated .

The response is immediate.

Declan: Complicated’s my middle name. You okay with that?

Reed: We can handle complicated if you’re with us. I’ve got smoozing covered, Adrian handles intimidation, and Declan provides controlled rage, which is surprisingly effective in negotiations involving stubborn rich people.

Adrian: You stay close to me tonight.

The last message makes my pulse skip in a way that has nothing to do with hangover anxiety.

Karma: Okay. Yes. I can do complicated. What do you need me to do?

Declan: Be our expert. Help us identify the real players from the pretenders.

Reed: And look gorgeous so people want to talk to us instead of immediately sensing our criminal inexperience and calling security faster than we can say family heirloom.

Adrian: Stay close.

Karma: When are you picking me up?

Declan: Hour. Need to go over the plan.

In one hour, three men are coming to my house to plan an infiltration of the exact criminal network I’ve been trying to avoid. An event where I could be recognized, exposed, or worse—where Sage could decide that having me there is the perfect opportunity to eliminate her little problem permanently.

I drag myself to the shower, letting hot water pound against my skull until the jackhammering subsides to a manageable throb.

The vintage navy dress I choose belonged to my grandmother—classic lines, expensive fabric, the kind of timeless elegance that fits in anywhere from charity galas to criminal auctions. The irony isn’t lost on me.

When the doorbell rings, I check my reflection one more time. Professional, competent, definitely not someone who spent last night having emotional breakdowns over stolen family heirlooms and poor life choices.

The moment I open the door, three distinct scents hit me like a freight train made of pheromones and poor life choices, and my omega biology responds before my hangover brain can process what’s happening—lungs expanding like I’ve been holding my breath for hours, shoulders dropping like someone just removed fifty-pound weights, the wine headache finally easing as my body recognizes safety in the form of three men who could probably bench press my entire emotional baggage collection.

Declan stands there in a dark suit that makes his shoulders look impossible, his jaw already set with that controlled fury that means he’s ready for war.

Reed wears a blazer that probably costs more than my monthly rent, his diplomatic smile perfectly calibrated but his eyes sharp with intelligence.

Adrian fills out all black in a way that makes his storm-gray eyes even more intense, his presence immediately making my front porch feel like the safest place in Rhode Island.

“Jesus, Karma,” Declan says, his gaze moving over me with obvious approval and something possessive that makes my knees weak. His Boston accent bleeds through when he’s like this—focused, protective, ready to solve problems with his hands if necessary. “You look incredible.”

“It was a very sophisticated wine-wrestling match,” I say, stepping aside to let them into my hallway. “Lots of strategy involved. Complex tactical decisions. The wine had better technique, but I had superior motivation.”

“Did the wine win?” Reed asks with his perfectly timed humor. “Because from your texts, it sounded like the wine might have won.”

“The wine and I reached a mutual understanding about respecting each other’s boundaries and not making important life decisions together.”

“Feeling better?” Declan asks, his blue eyes automatically scanning my face for signs of distress with the thoroughness of someone who’s made it his job to notice when people are struggling.

“Functional. Caffeinated. Ready to pretend I belong at fancy criminal gatherings where everyone has better jewelry than me.”

“Good,” Adrian says, his voice carrying that quiet intensity that makes my knees slightly weak. “Because this might get complicated fast.”

Declan pulls out his phone and spreads papers across my coffee table, each document positioned for maximum efficiency. “Here’s what we know. Sterling Ashworth, sixty-two, owns a shipping fortune and collects maritime antiques as a hobby. Very exclusive, very private, very rich.”

“How rich are we talking?” I ask, settling into Grandmother’s chair and immediately catching more of their combined scents.

“Rich enough that he doesn’t need to sell anything, ever,” Reed says, his fingers drumming against his knee in nervous rhythm despite his casual tone. “Which makes convincing him... diplomatically challenging. Like negotiating with someone who could buy Rhode Island as a weekend hobby.”

“What kind of collection does he have?” I ask, my professional instincts overriding hangover fog.

“According to Sage, everything from ship chronometers to full-scale figureheads,” Declan says, running his hand through his hair in that gesture that means he’s stressed but trying to control it.

Boston bleeds through his careful control when he adds, “The kind of collection that belongs in a museum but lives in some rich bastard’s private mansion instead. ”

My scent must be broadcasting anxiety because all three men immediately shift their attention to me, protective energy filling the room like storm pressure.

“And he hosts these events regularly?”

“Private sales events,” Adrian corrects, moving to my front window with hands behind his back, scanning the street like he’s calculating sight lines and escape routes. He’s already working security for an event that hasn’t started yet. “Invitation only. Very discreet clientele.”

“The kind of discreet that doesn’t ask questions about how things found their way to market,” I realize, my general knowledge of maritime antique networks filling in implications I don’t want to understand.

“Exactly,” Declan says, his jaw working like he’s chewing on something bitter. His hands curl into fists, then deliberately uncurl. “Rich bastard thinks he can just—” He stops, runs both hands through his hair. “Sorry. This isn’t about my feelings. This is about getting our family’s compass back.”

“What’s the plan?” I ask, though I’m increasingly certain I don’t want to know.