Page 23 of Knot Your Karma (Not Yours #1)

Karma

The moment we walk inside, I realize this is definitely not your average gallery opening.

Conversations happen in the spaces between words—pauses that last too long, voices that drop when strangers approach, laughter that doesn’t reach eyes like everyone’s performing casual art appreciation while conducting shady business deals.

This isn’t art appreciation. This is commerce wrapped in culture, the kind of business that happens in handshake agreements that never see paperwork and probably end with people mysteriously disappearing if they ask too many questions.

The air tastes like expensive cologne layered over aged wood and brass polish, with wine and carefully managed tension threading underneath. My omega senses pick up predator and prey dynamics immediately—who’s hunting, who’s hiding, who’s pretending to be something they’re not.

“There,” I whisper, nodding toward a distinguished man in his sixties holding court near ship chronometers. “That has to be Sterling Ashworth.”

Silver hair styled with expensive precision, suit tailored to his exact measurements, the kind of confident posture that comes from never doubting your right to the best of everything. He’s surrounded by people whose body language screams please notice me while their eyes calculate advantage.

“Son of a bitch,” Declan mutters under his breath, jaw clenching, Boston sharpening his consonants.

“Easy there, Captain America,” Reed says, his hand briefly touching Declan’s arm. “We’re charming potential buyers, not avenging angels.”

“How do we approach him?” Declan’s jaw works like he’s chewing glass.

“We don’t. Not directly.” I scan the room, cataloguing players with the same instinct I use for estate sales. “We need to understand the ecosystem first.”

“I’ll work the crowd,” Reed says, shoulders relaxing as he shifts into networking mode. “See who’s willing to share interesting gossip about authentication standards and questionable provenance.”

“I’ll check the auction pieces,” Declan says, attention moving to displays with professional hunger. “See if anything matches our compass, figure out what kind of merchandise moves through here.”

“And I stay with Karma,” Adrian says, his palm finding my back through vintage navy silk.

We separate into the crowd, and my confidence solidifies on familiar ground. This is my world—expensive antiques, collectors with more money than sense, the delicate dance of authentication and negotiation.

Even with wine-headache fog, I know these rhythms.

Adrian stays close without hovering. He positions himself to track threats while letting me lead conversations. When I approach a woman examining a sextant, he’s there but not intrusive.

“Gorgeous pieces,” I tell the woman with the sextant, keeping my voice casually appreciative. “Eighteen eighties? ”

“Good eye.” She assesses my vintage dress and pearl earrings with practiced evaluation. “Though I suspect most pieces here are earlier than marked. Sellers age things up for premiums.”

“Always a risk with private collections.” I move closer to examine brass fittings with professional interest. “Do you deal much with maritime pieces?”

“When I can find authentic ones. Harrison has the best eye for real provenance, but he’s very... selective about sharing knowledge.”

“Mr. Blackwater seems to know everyone here.”

“He should—half owe their best pieces to his recommendations. The other half hope to sell him something he can’t resist.”

“And does he ever find anything irresistible?”

Her laugh carries bitter edges. “Rarely. He’s more likely to sell these days than buy. Says his collection is complete.”

My stomach drops like I’ve missed a step. If Blackwater considers his collection complete, convincing him to sell anything will be nearly impossible.

I’m processing this when Adrian’s energy shifts beside me. His whole body coils with alert readiness, and I follow his gaze across the room.

A man in an expensive suit stares at me with focused attention that makes every omega instinct scream danger. When our eyes meet, he starts walking toward us with the confidence of someone used to getting what he wants.

“Karma,” Adrian says quietly, his hand moving to my elbow with firm pressure. “We move. Now.”

Too late. The man reaches us before we can gracefully exit, inserting himself into our space with practiced smoothness.

“Excuse me,” he says, voice carrying that particular alpha polish that immediately puts my hindbrain on high alert—too controlled, too interested. “I couldn’t help noticing your expertise with maritime pieces. I don’t think we’ve met. ”

He extends his hand, and when I reluctantly shake it, he holds on too long. His palm is damp, grip too firm. His scent hits me wrong—expensive cologne over something that makes my omega hindbrain scream predator . Not the same kind of alpha energy as my guys. This one hunts.

“Marcus Webb,” he says, still gripping my hand despite my attempts to pull away. “I specialize in... unique acquisitions.”

Unique acquisitions. Code for stolen goods and questionable provenance.

“Karma Rose.” I extract my hand as politely as possible while my pulse hammers. “I run a small maritime antique shop.”

“How charming. Local expertise.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes, and there’s something calculating that makes my instincts scream predator . “You know, you look familiar. Have we done business before?”

My breath catches. This could be recognition, or it could be fishing, testing whether I’m connected to networks I shouldn’t be.

Either way, it’s dangerous.

“I don’t think so.” My voice comes out strained despite efforts to sound casual.

“Hmm. I’m usually quite good with faces.” He steps closer despite Adrian’s obvious presence, close enough that predatory edge cuts through expensive cologne. “Especially beautiful omegas who know their way around valuable maritime pieces.”

The way he says beautiful omegas —like he’s shopping for something specific—makes my skin crawl.

This isn’t attraction. This is hunting.

My scent must be broadcasting panic because Adrian immediately tenses, moving without speaking to position himself between me and Webb.

Webb’s eyes flick to Adrian, calculating whether to push or retreat. Tension builds between them—alpha protective instincts meeting alpha predatory interest, with me caught in the middle like prey being fought over.

“Of course,” Webb says finally, but his smile turns cold and sharp. “Enjoy the rest of the evening, Karma. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon.”

He melts back into the crowd, but I feel him watching, his attention like weight between my shoulder blades. My hands shake as adrenaline crashes through me.

“We find Declan and Reed,” Adrian says, his hand moving to my back in clear claiming behavior. “Now.”

We locate them quickly—Reed charming dealers near the bar while his eyes track our approach with immediate concern, Declan examining auction pieces until he spots Adrian’s sharp protective energy and shifts into alert mode.

“Problem?” Declan asks, moving closer with controlled alpha intensity that means he’s prepared for violence.

“Someone either recognized Karma or thinks he does,” Adrian says, voice carrying careful control overprotective fury. “Either way, trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” Reed asks, immediately shifting into crisis mode.

“The kind that asks uncomfortable questions about how young omegas end up with expensive maritime pieces,” I say, voice barely steady.

All three go very still, processing implications—that my connection to this world might be more complicated than they realized, that bringing me here might have exposed me to exactly the danger they were trying to avoid.

“Fuck this,” Declan says immediately, Boston bleeding through protective fury. “We leave. Now.”

“Wait.” Every instinct screams to run, but we haven’t accomplished anything. “We haven’t talked to Blackwater yet. If we leave now, we might not get another chance.”

“If we stay, you might get exposed to worse than missed opportunities,” Adrian says, voice carrying absolute protective authority.

Before we can decide, Sterling Ashworth approaches our group.

Up close, he’s even more imposing—decades of having the best of everything radiating from expensive suit, precision-styled hair, calculated movements designed for maximum impact.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he says, extending his hand to Declan with practiced charm, smile perfect and completely empty. “Sterling Ashworth.”

“Declan Mitchell.” I watch Declan force himself into professional mode. “These are my business partners, Reed Santos and Adrian Blackwood. And our maritime consultant, Karma Rose.”

“Ms. Rose.” Blackwater takes my hand with old-fashioned courtesy, grip firm but not aggressive, though his eyes assess with sharp intelligence. “I understand you’re an expert in maritime antiques.”

“I try to be.” My voice comes out steady despite adrenaline still coursing through my system.

“Excellent. I’m always interested in meeting people who truly understand the history behind pieces.

” His attention shifts back to Declan, something calculating entering his expression that makes my stomach clench.

“Mitchell, you said? Are you by chance related to the Boston Mitchells? Maritime family, very old shipping connections?”

Declan’s surprise barely stays contained. “You know my family?”

“I make it my business to know maritime families. Your ancestors had quite a reputation for quality craftsmanship—compasses, chronometers, navigational instruments.” Blackwater’s smile widens. “I believe I may have a piece or two with Mitchell provenance in my collection.”

My heart stops like someone cut the power, then kicks back to life hammering so hard my pulse must be visible through my skin. He’s talking about the compass. He knows exactly where it came from and how it connects to Declan’s family.