Page 22 of Knot Your Karma (Not Yours #1)

“Simple,” Reed says, pulling out his phone with fingers already moving across the screen.

“I research the guest list, see who’s connected to whom, find the conversation bridges and pressure points.

” He glances up with a grin that suggests it’s anything but simple.

“We go in, mingle with rich maritime collectors like we belong there, identify who has influence with Blackwater, and convince him that holding onto our family compass might not be worth the potential... complications.”

“What kind of complications? ”

“The kind where his collection gets more attention than he’d prefer,” Declan says carefully, but his voice carries an edge that suggests the complications won’t be gentle or particularly legal.

Oh God. They’re planning to threaten exposure of his entire operation to get the compass back. At an event full of people who definitely don’t want their business exposed. People who solve problems by making them disappear permanently.

“That sounds...” I search for words that won’t sound completely terrified.

“Dangerous,” Adrian finishes, his storm-gray eyes holding mine with laser focus. “Which is why you stay close to me. All night.”

The way he says it—not asking permission, just stating fact—makes something deep in my hindbrain purr with satisfaction.

“I can handle myself,” I say automatically, because Blake taught me that needing protection makes you weak.

“I know you can,” Adrian replies, leaning forward with that controlled intensity that makes the air feel charged. “But you’re not handling yourself alone tonight.”

Reed’s pen stops its nervous drumming against his knee. He leans back in Grandmother’s chair, and his diplomatic smile becomes genuine for the first time all evening.

“Actually,” I say, my professional instincts overriding my panic, “before we plan any threatening, we need to understand how these events actually work.”

All three men lean forward slightly, and the quality of their attention shifts from planning mode to listening mode.

“These aren’t just rich collectors playing with expensive toys,” I continue, finding my footing on familiar professional ground.

“They’re people who’ve built their reputations on discretion and exclusive access.

Going in making threats is like showing up to a wine tasting and demanding beer.

You’ll get thrown out before you can accomplish anything. ”

My voice comes out steady, sure. My hands stop their nervous fidgeting with my bracelet. For the first time since those seventeen text messages, I’m not measuring my words or second-guessing my expertise.

The moment I finish talking, something in the room shifts.

Declan’s rigid posture softens into something more collaborative.

Reed’s nervous energy focuses into sharp attention.

Adrian’s protective stance becomes approving rather than defensive.

They’re not just including me in their plans—they’re following my lead.

For the first time since Blake, I’m not performing expertise to earn respect—I’m offering it because they value what I know.

“What do you suggest?” Declan asks, and he immediately closes his research folder. Reed puts away his phone. Adrian turns from the window to face me fully.

Three successful, competent men waiting for me to tell them what to do.

My spine straightens automatically.

“We go in as potential buyers. New money looking to start a maritime collection, interested in learning from established collectors like Blackwater. We make connections, build trust, and then casually mention that we’re looking for a specific piece that might be similar to something in his collection. ”

“And if he’s not interested in selling?”

“Then we find out who he trusts, who he listens to, who might be able to influence his decisions. These collectors love showing off their knowledge and their connections. If we approach it right, they’ll tell us everything we need to know without realizing they’re doing it.”

“See?” Reed says, tension finally easing from his shoulders as understanding dawns across his face.

“This is why we need you. We were planning to go in like righteous alphas with a family mission and possibly some light intimidation. You’re planning to go in like someone who actually understands the territory and how these people think. ”

“Maritime antiques are my world,” I say, and my voice carries confidence I didn’t know I still had. “Even when that world gets... morally complicated.”

“She stays with me,” Adrian says, his voice going quiet, controlled, final. His hands clasp behind his back—that stance that means the decision is made and not up for discussion.

Something low in my belly flutters, and I have to look away before anyone notices I’m pressing my thighs together.

“All right,” Declan says, gathering the papers with efficient movements. “We follow Karma’s lead. She knows this territory better than any of us.”

“Just remember,” I add, standing and smoothing my vintage dress, “these people can smell desperation and amateur hour from across a room. We need to be interested but not desperate, knowledgeable but not threatening, rich enough to belong but not so rich we’re competition.”

“Diplomatic wealth,” Reed says, straightening his blazer with theatrical precision. “Think family restaurant success story, not Pablo Escobar yacht party. Rich enough they assume we belong, boring enough they don’t Google us or ask uncomfortable questions about our backgrounds.”

“And whatever happens,” Adrian says, standing and moving closer to me, his presence immediately making the space feel more secure, “you don’t move without me knowing where you are. Not in there.”

Every instinct I have wants to trust these men, to let them handle the danger while I contribute my expertise. But Blake taught me that trusting alphas with my safety is how you get destroyed. The conflict makes my hands want to shake no matter how much their scents comfort me.

“Ready?” Declan asks, checking his watch with the precision of someone who’s calculated travel time down to the minute.

“Ready,” I say, grabbing my purse and the small clutch that contains business cards I pray I won’t need to use tonight.

Adrian’s palm finds the small of my back, warm through vintage navy silk. His thumb traces one small circle—there, gone. The contact sends electricity straight through the vintage silk, and some omega instinct I thought Blake had destroyed recognizes protection without possession.

“Showtime,” he murmurs against my ear, his voice steady as bedrock. “Remember—you belong with us.”

Something in my hindbrain settles at his certainty. Not because he’s telling me what to do, but because he believes I can do it.