Page 24 of Knot Your Karma (Not Yours #1)

“Really?” Declan asks, voice carefully controlled despite tension radiating from his posture, Boston accent sharpening with barely contained emotion. “I’d be very interested to know more.”

“Perhaps we could arrange a private viewing sometime. I’m always happy to share family history with descendants.

” Blackwater’s smile stays pleasant, but something calculating lurks behind it, like a cat playing with mice.

“Though I should mention, I recently acquired a particularly beautiful Mitchell family compass. Exquisite piece, obviously well-loved, with the most touching inscription about finding true north and coming home.”

Each word hits like a physical blow, precisely aimed for maximum impact. He’s describing the compass perfectly, deliberately. He knows exactly who Declan is and why we’re here.

“That sounds like a piece my family’s been looking for,” Declan says carefully, hands curling into fists despite his controlled tone. “It went missing some time ago.”

“How unfortunate. Family pieces should stay with families, don’t you think?

” Blackwater’s tone stays perfectly reasonable, but his eyes sharpen with intelligence and possible amusement.

“Though of course, when pieces come to me through proper channels, with appropriate documentation, I assume they’re legally available for purchase. ”

Proper channels. Appropriate documentation. He’s telling us he bought it legitimately and has no obligation to return it.

“Of course,” Reed says smoothly, stepping into diplomatic mode with practiced ease.

“We’re not questioning anything. I’m sure your paperwork is absolutely pristine.

We’re just three guys hoping family sentiment beats collector pride, you know?

These old maritime families get pretty sentimental about their heirlooms.”

“An admirable hope. But you understand, I’m quite attached to the piece myself. It’s become a centerpiece of my collection.”

“Mr. Blackwater, I’m not much for dancing around things,” Declan says. “That compass belonged to my great-great-grandfather. We’d like it back, and we’re prepared to pay whatever it takes.”

“Mr. Mitchell, payment assumes I’m interested in selling. Which I’m not.” Blackwater’s smile becomes more businesslike, sharp around the edges. “However, I’m always interested in... interesting trades. Perhaps if you had something equally significant to offer...”

“What kind of something?” I ask before I can stop myself.

Blackwater’s attention turns to me, cataloguing every detail of my appearance, voice, scent. The way he looks at me—like he’s trying to solve a puzzle—makes my skin crawl. This is how predators study prey. How collectors evaluate acquisitions.

“Well, Ms. Rose, given your expertise, I’m sure you understand that maritime collections are built through relationships—connections, insider knowledge. Sometimes the most valuable thing someone can offer isn’t money—it’s information.”

Information. He wants details about how pieces move through markets, about other collectors, about the network that brought him the compass in the first place.

Information that could expose Sage, and me, and everyone connected to how that compass really changed hands.

“What kind of information?” Adrian asks, and there’s subtle warning in his quiet voice that makes Blackwater’s smile widen.

“Oh, nothing untoward. Simply the professional insights that help collectors stay informed about market opportunities.” Blackwater’s tone stays perfectly innocent, but threat rings clear.

“For instance, Ms. Rose, I’m sure someone with your expertise has fascinating stories about how family pieces find their way to market. The human drama behind transactions.”

He’s asking me to expose the very network I’m hiding from. To tell him about emotional omegas selling family heirlooms out of spite, about dealers who don’t ask questions, about the whole ugly chain that brought the compass to his collection.

“I’m sure Ms. Rose’s professional discretion is exactly what makes her so valuable to her clients,” Adrian says, and his voice has gone deadly quiet.

Blackwater’s smile widens like he’s pleased to have provoked a reaction. “Of course. Professional discretion is everything in this business. Which is why I’m sure you understand that I can’t simply hand over collection pieces based on family sentiment alone.”

“Perhaps we could continue this conversation at a later date,” Reed suggests. “When we’ve had time to consider your generous offer.”

“Of course. Though I should mention that my interest in expanding my collection tends to be... seasonal. Opportunities that aren’t pursued promptly often disappear entirely.”

Threat. Subtle, polite, wrapped in reasonable business language, but definitely a threat. Move fast or lose the chance entirely.

“We understand,” Declan says, voice tight, jaw working with the effort of politeness. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Blackwater.”

“My pleasure. Enjoy the rest of the evening. And Ms. Rose?” He turns to me one final time, expression pleasant but eyes cold.

“Do be careful. Maritime antiques can be such a small world. One wrong association, one misunderstanding about provenance, and suddenly doors that used to be open become permanently closed. Such a shame when promising careers end over... complications.”

Another threat, this one directed specifically at me with the kind of polite menace that would make a mafia don proud, wrapped in concern but sharp as a blade dipped in expensive cologne and passive-aggressive business speak.

We make polite goodbyes and move toward the exit, but I feel eyes tracking our movement like spotlights.

Marcus Webb still watches from across the room, predatory focus making my skin crawl.

Blackwater is undoubtedly having us followed.

God knows who else might recognize me or connect me to Sage’s network.

“Walk normally,” Adrian says quietly, his hand finding my elbow with firm pressure. “Don’t look back, don’t rush, just get to the truck.”

We make it outside without incident, but the moment we’re in the truck, all suppressed adrenaline crashes through my system. My hands shake, my pulse hammers loud enough to drown out traffic, and I can barely catch my breath.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Declan says from the driver’s seat, starting the engine with sharp, controlled movements, Boston accent thick with protective fury. “That was...”

“Terrifying,” Reed finishes, running hands through his hair, diplomatic composure finally cracking. “That was absolutely terrifying. I’ve never felt like such an amateur in my entire life.”

“You were perfect,” I manage, voice shaky. “Both of you. If we’d gone in with threats like originally planned...”

“We’d be in jail,” Adrian says quietly, his hands framing my face, warm and steady and anchoring. “Breathe with me. In for four, hold for four, out for four.”

I try to follow his rhythm, focusing on storm-gray eyes that look silver in streetlight, letting his steady presence anchor me while my nervous system processes the danger we just escaped .

Something in my omega biology responds to his steady alpha presence—pulse slowing, breathing evening out, the panic finally starting to recede.

“Better?” he asks after a few moments, thumbs stroking across my cheekbones.

I nod, though I’m not sure it’s true. “That was... intense.”

“That was you being incredible under pressure,” Declan says from the driver’s seat, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror, expression fierce with protective pride. “The way you handled those conversations, the information you gathered—we wouldn’t have learned half of it without your expertise.”

“But we still don’t have the compass.” My voice still shakes.

“No, but we know where it is, we know who has it, and we know he’s not completely unwilling to deal,” Reed says, turning to look at me, expression warm despite tension still radiating from his posture. “That’s more than we had this morning.”

“And we know you can handle yourself in situations that would make most people run for the hills,” Adrian adds, thumb stroking across my cheek with gentle reverence. “Even when it gets dangerous.”

But they don’t understand how dangerous it really was. They think tonight was about maritime collectors and difficult negotiations. They don’t know Marcus Webb’s recognition, Blackwater’s threats, and the entire evening was about my connection to a criminal network that could destroy all of us.

“We should get you home,” Adrian says.

The drive back is quiet, all of us processing what happened and what comes next. But there’s something different in the truck—a shift in our dynamic that has nothing to do with the evening’s danger and everything to do with how we handled it together.

They kept me safe. They trusted my expertise. They worked together seamlessly to protect me and achieve their goal.

And I led them straight into danger while lying about why it was dangerous.

When we reach my house, Declan and Reed head to their truck with promises to regroup tomorrow and plan next steps. But Adrian walks me to the door.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asks as I unlock the front door with hands that only shake slightly.

“Getting there.” My pulse still races from leftover fear and something else entirely.

He steps closer, backing me against the door frame, his presence surrounding me with protective energy that makes my brain go quiet and grateful. “You were amazing tonight. The way you read that room, handled those conversations, kept your cool when things got threatening...”

“I was terrified.”

“You were terrified, and you did it anyway. That’s courage.” His hands find my waist, warm through dress fabric, and suddenly the space between us feels charged with more than protective energy. Adrenaline from the evening transforms into something hungrier, more desperate.

“Adrian, I need to tell—” I start, but words disappear when his mouth finds mine.

The kiss tastes like claiming and adrenaline—alpha relief that his omega is safe mixing with need to mark what’s his.

“When I saw that bastard looking at you like that,” he murmurs against my lips, voice rough with emotion, every word vibrating with controlled intensity, “all I could think about was getting you somewhere safe. Somewhere mine.”

“You did.” My hands fist in his jacket, anchoring myself to solid warmth. “You kept me safe.”

“Always,” he says, and the word is promise and claiming all at once, fierce and certain and absolute.

He kisses me again, deeper this time, and I melt into it .

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark with satisfaction and something possessive that makes my knees weak.

“Get some rest,” he says, though his voice suggests rest is the last thing on his mind. “Tomorrow we figure out how to get that compass back.”

That compass. Guilt hits like a physical blow, sharp and breathless, because it’s not just any compass anymore. It’s evidence of my betrayal, sitting in Sterling Ashworth’s collection like a ticking time bomb waiting to destroy everything.

“Adrian,” I start, needing to tell him, needing to confess everything.

“Tomorrow,” he says firmly, kissing my forehead with gentle finality that makes my chest ache with undeserved tenderness. “Tonight you’re safe. That’s all that matters.”

I watch him walk back to his truck, lips still tingling from his claiming kiss, body still humming with protective energy and suppressed desire.

Tomorrow I have to tell them everything. Tomorrow I have to confess about Blake, about the theft, about the danger I’ve led them into.

Tonight, I’m going to hold onto the feeling of being protected, wanted, claimed by someone who thinks I’m worth keeping safe.

Even though I know I don’t deserve it.

Even though I know it’s all built on lies that are about to destroy everything.