Page 25 of Knot Your Karma (Not Yours #1)

Declan

The Crow’s Nest smells like old wood, spilled beer, and the kind of no-bullshit atmosphere where a man can say what he’s actually thinking instead of what sounds diplomatic.

Our expensive suits mark us as outsiders among the fishermen and dock workers nursing their end-of-shift beers, but nobody stares. This is a mind-your-own-business kind of place.

“Three whiskeys,” I tell the bartender—a woman in her fifties with graying hair and the kind of expression that says she’s heard every sob story in the book and isn’t buying any of them.

She slides glasses across scarred wood without comment, amber liquid catching dim bar lighting.

Karma stole the compass.

Not some random thief. Not Blake’s mysterious poor choices. Karma Rose, the maritime antique expert who knew exactly what dealers to avoid, exactly how black-market networks operate, and exactly how to navigate a room full of criminals like she’d been doing it for years.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Reed says, loosening his tie and rolling up his sleeves, diplomatic polish finally cracking after the evening’s tension. “The thing where you pace like a caged animal and emit enough cedar-scented fury to clear the room.”

“What would you prefer I do?” I lean forward over my glass, voice dropping to match his discretion. “Pretend I don’t notice that our innocent victim knew every criminal in that room by name?”

“Well, when you put it like that, it does sound slightly suspicious,” Reed says with that perfectly timed humor that makes serious situations bearable, though he pauses mid-sip of his whiskey.

“Though I have to say, if Karma’s been running maritime heist operations, I’m finding that oddly attractive. ”

Adrian sits across from us at the scarred wooden table, methodically working through his second whiskey, each movement deliberate and controlled. He’s been quiet since we got back from the auction.

“She knew every dealer in that room,” I continue, my Boston accent bleeding through with growing agitation. “Not just professionally. Personally. The way she positioned herself, the conversations she avoided, the people she steered us away from.”

“Because she’s an expert,” Reed points out, but his diplomatic tone sounds forced, lacking his usual smoothness.

“No.” I set my whiskey glass down harder than intended, the sound sharp against wood. “Because she’s been part of that world. Recently.”

Adrian sets down his glass and looks up, those storm-gray eyes holding mine with steady certainty. “She sold it.”

It’s not a question. He knows too.

“I think Karma Rose is the omega Blake was stringing along when the heirloom went missing.” The words taste like copper and certainty, sharp on my tongue.

“I think she found out about his other women, took something precious from him, and sold it to someone who moves maritime pieces through private networks.”

Reed’s phone goes completely still in his hands, the device going dark. “So you’re saying our maritime expert has been lying to us this entire time about the one thing we asked for her help with.”

“I’m saying she’s been protecting herself from three men who showed up looking for something she stole from someone who destroyed her.” I lean against the wall, the building’s bones solid under my shoulders. “And honestly? Good for fucking her.”

The relief of not pretending anymore hits harder than the whiskey. We’ve all been carrying this suspicion and having it out in the open feels like finally breathing properly.

The silence stretches between us, heavy with what we’re all thinking but haven’t said out loud.

Around us, the bar continues its normal rhythm—conversations and laughter and the kind of honest working-class atmosphere where dock workers solve problems with beer and better luck next time.

Not three men in expensive suits discussing their omega’s justified theft of a family heirloom.

“So we all know,” Adrian says quietly, his voice cutting through the bar noise like a blade through silk.

“We all know,” I confirm, the admission settling in my chest like a weight lifting and dropping at the same time.

“And we’re all okay with it,” Reed adds, finally setting his phone aside and giving us his full attention, his body language shifting from casual to focused. “Which probably says something about our moral compasses, but honestly, I’m fine with that.”

“More than okay with it.” Something possessive flares behind my ribs, making my hands curl into fists with the need to protect what’s mine. “Blake had it coming. Hell, he’s lucky she only took one thing.”

“The question is what we do about it,” Adrian says, leaning back in his chair and scanning the bar with those storm-gray eyes, automatically checking sight lines even in casual conversation.

“We don’t do anything about it.” The decision crystallizes as I say it, solid and unshakeable. “We already chose her over Blake the moment we decided helping him was bullshit. This just makes it official.”

Reed signals the bartender for another round, his diplomatic instincts kicking in. “Dec, I love your righteous fury, but we need to think about this rationally. If she stole it?—”

“If she stole it, she had every goddamn right to.” My voice comes out harder than intended, Boston sharpening every consonant. “You heard Blake on that phone call. Six to eight women simultaneously. Performance fucking metrics. Treating omegas like they were cars he was test-driving.”

“That doesn’t make theft technically legal,” Reed points out, but there’s no conviction in his voice, his hands moving in those diplomatic gestures that mean he’s already working through the moral complexity.

“Fuck technically legal.” I lean forward, elbows on the table, voice dropping to barely above a whisper.

“Blake emotionally tortured her for months. Made her think she was heading toward a bonding ceremony while he was keeping spreadsheets on other women. She takes his precious family compass? That’s justice. ”

“Good for her,” Adrian says quietly, his storm-gray eyes reflecting something that might be satisfaction.

Reed runs both hands through his hair, messing up the perfect diplomatic styling. “Okay, so we’re all agreed that we don’t care if she stole it. Actually, scratch that—we’re proud of her for stealing it.”

“Damn right we are,” I confirm, my chest swelling with fierce satisfaction. “Blake doesn’t deserve to get his precious family heirloom back. Not after what he did to her. ”

“But what about us?” Adrian asks. “She’s been lying to our faces every day while we planned how to recover it.”

That stops me cold. Because he’s right—Karma has been lying to us. Every conversation about the compass, every moment of trust, every time we included her in our planning, she knew exactly where it was and how it got there.

“She’s protecting herself,” I say, but the words feel weak, lacking conviction.

“From us,” Reed points out. “She doesn’t trust us enough to tell us the truth. Which, honestly, fair enough. Three strange men show up asking about something you stole? I’d probably lie too. Actually, I’d definitely lie. I’d lie so convincingly I’d start believing it myself.”

“Would you?” Adrian’s question cuts through my rising anger like a blade. “Three men show up looking for something you stole from someone who abused you. Men who could be his friends, his pack, people who think his version of events is the truth. Would you confess?”

The logic hits like cold water, dousing my protective fury with stark understanding. Of course she wouldn’t trust us. From her perspective, we could be just like Blake—men who look trustworthy but turn manipulative the moment they don’t get what they want.

“Jesus Christ.” I slump back in my chair, the realization hitting like a punch to the gut. “She doesn’t know we’re different.”

“She doesn’t know we chose her over Blake before we even knew about the stolen compass,” Reed adds. “From her perspective, we’re three guys who showed up asking for help finding Blake’s stolen property.”

“She doesn’t know we’ve been falling for her while she’s been terrified we’ll abandon her the moment we learn the truth,” Adrian says quietly, settling back in his chair to face us both.

Weight settles heavy between my ribs, and fuck, that’s brutal. Karma’s been carrying this secret alone, terrified that the first good thing to happen to her in months will disappear the moment we discover who she really is.

“There’s something else we need to discuss,” Reed says, his diplomatic tone taking on that careful edge that means he’s about to say something significant, his fingers drumming against his knee.

“What?”

“What we’re actually doing here.” Reed gestures between the three of us with those expressive hands.

“Because I don’t know about you two, but I’m not just interested in Karma as a friend or a business partner.

I’m interested in her as someone I’d like to wake up next to.

Preferably on a regular basis. Is that too direct? That feels too direct.”

The admission just sits there between us, loaded with all kinds of possibility and complications we’re probably not ready for.

“You want to court her,” Adrian says, not a question but a statement.

“I want to court her,” Reed confirms, his ocean breeze scent shifting with honest desire. “And unless I’m completely misreading the situation—which, granted, my track record with reading romantic situations is questionable at best—so do both of you.”

My chest squeezes tight with something that might be relief or might be terror.

Because he’s right—I do want to court Karma.

I want to protect her and provide for her and prove that not all men are worth fearing.

I want to see her smile when she talks about maritime antiques, want to be the reason her instincts finally feel safe.

“This could get complicated,” I point out, though my instincts are already calculating how to make it work.