Page 28 of Knot Your Karma (Not Yours #1)

“I know, but biology has timelines, sweetie. And good partners get claimed early.” Her honesty is gentle but carries the weight of someone who learned this lesson the hard way.

“If you wait too long focusing on compass collections instead of building real relationships...” She doesn’t finish, but I can hear the unspoken end, you might end up like me, replaced by someone younger and more omega-ish when your pack finds their real match.

“What if I don’t want a traditional timeline? What if there are other ways to build relationships that don’t involve rushing toward bonding because that’s what everyone expects?”

“What do you mean?” Her radar immediately picks up on something significant in my tone, eyebrows raising slightly.

“What if there are different kinds of partnerships? Different pack structures that work for different people? ”

Mom’s eyebrows raise, her instincts clearly sensing something significant in my scent signature. “Are you involved with someone? Because you’ve been very mysterious about your personal life lately, and there’s something different about your energy today.”

“It’s complicated,” I say, which is the understatement of the century.

“Complicated how? Is it a traditional pairing situation, or...” Her training kicks in, voice careful and diplomatic. “Because honey, if you’re considering pack dynamics, that’s a big decision.”

The slip happens before I can stop it. “They’re definitely interested. It’s just... different than what you’d expect.”

Mom goes very still, fork halfway to her mouth. “They?”

Shit. Double shit. Triple shit with a side of family drama and interrogation techniques.

“I meant... there are multiple complications. Professional stuff, you know? Client relationships can be tricky when?—”

“Karma Rose.” Mom sets down her fork with deliberate precision, the china clicking against the table like a gavel. “Are you being courted by a pack?”

“It’s not like that,” I say, which is both true and completely inadequate.

“What is it like, then?” Mom goes very still, and I catch something complicated flickering across her face—hope mixed with old pain, like she wants this to work out for me but can’t quite believe pack dynamics ever end well for anyone who isn’t a true omega.

“Pack courtship is serious, honey. Make sure they want you specifically.”

Unfortunately she knows this better than even I do.

“Maybe I don’t want traditional pairing,” I say quietly, my voice barely carrying across the formal dining room.

“Traditional pairing or pack bonding—either way, you deserve partners who respect what you do and who you are.” Her wisdom surfaces, diplomatic but firm. “These modern people who want partners but don’t want to commit properly, who string multiple relationships along without clear intentions...”

“They’re not like that.” The words come out stronger than intended, fueled by days of being treated like I matter. “They think my work is important and my expertise valuable, and they want to prove they’re worth my time instead of the other way around.”

Mom’s radar immediately picks up on the shift in my scent—confidence mixing with something that sounds like genuine interest rather than casual dating.

“Then why is it complicated?”

Because I stole something from one of their family members and I’m terrified they’ll hate me when they find out.

Because I don’t know if I deserve the kind of respect and care they’re offering.

Because everything good that’s ever happened to me has eventually gone away.

“Because it’s new, and I’m scared,” I admit, voice coming out smaller than intended. “Because I don’t have a good track record with partners who seem too good to be true.”

Mom’s expression softens completely. “Scared of what, sweetheart?”

“Of screwing it up. Of not being enough. Of them deciding I’m not worth the effort once they really get to know me.

” The words tumble out in a rush, all my insecurities spilling onto Mom’s formal dining table.

“Of them realizing I’m just a girl who runs a struggling antique shop and talks to old compass collections like they’re people. ”

“Oh, honey.” Mom reaches across the table with both hands, capturing mine in that firm, warm grip. “You are absolutely worth proper courtship. Any pack that doesn’t see that isn’t worthy of you, no matter how charming or coordinated their approach might be. ”

“Even if I make mistakes? Even if I’m not perfect? Even if my life doesn’t look like what everyone expects?”

“Especially then. Love—whether it’s traditional pairing or pack bonding—isn’t about perfection, Karma.

It’s about finding people who think you’re worth loving exactly as you are.

” Her grip tightens, anchoring me to the moment.

“And if these partners are offering real courtship, with proper respect and protocols, then maybe your timeline is exactly what it should be.”

The unexpected support hits like a physical thing—warmth spreading through my chest until my heart feels too big for my ribcage.

“I should probably head home,” I say, standing before the emotion can overwhelm me completely. “But thank you, Mom. For dinner, and for... understanding. For not freaking out about the pack courtship thing.”

“Will you tell me more about these mysterious partners when you’re ready?” Her curiosity is gentle but present. “Because I’d like to know who’s making my daughter sound like she’s being properly courted.”

“Both,” I say with a laugh that’s half tears. “Definitely both. When I’m ready.”

The moment I’m behind the wheel, my hands tremble with nervous energy as I reach for my phone like it’s a lifeline to sanity.

Something in my biology settles the moment I see their messages—the relief of pack contact after hours of family evaluation that left me feeling like I’m perpetually disappointing everyone by being myself.

Four messages in the Compass Recovery group chat.

Compass Recovery

Declan (5:30 PM): Hope your family dinner is going okay.

Reed (6:15 PM): Maternal interrogation survival report: How many times did someone ask why you’re not married yet? I’m taking bets.

Adrian (6:45 PM): Everything alright?

Declan (7:20 PM): Friday dinner? All of us, somewhere nice. Our treat. No pressure, but we’d like to talk.

I stare at the screen, reading each message twice, warmth spreading through my chest like hot chocolate on a cold day. They were thinking about me during my family dinner. Checking in, making sure I was okay, wanting to spend more time together.

Me: Just got back. Family dinner survived with minimal emotional casualties.

The response is immediate, like they’ve been waiting.

Reed: Excellent. Please tell me you didn’t have to defend your career choices to someone who loves you but wishes you made different ones.

Me: How did you know?

Adrian: Lucky guess. You okay?

Me: Getting there. And yes to Friday dinner. That sounds really nice.

Declan: Great. We’ll find somewhere good. Reed’s already researching restaurants like it’s a diplomatic mission requiring security clearance.

Reed: I take food very seriously. Also ambiance. And whether they have good wine to go with important conversations.

Me: Important conversations?

Adrian: Just... things we’d like to talk about. Good things. Promise.

The slight hesitation in that message makes my pulse jump, but not with fear. With anticipation. Like maybe this Friday is going to change things in ways I can’t predict yet.

Me: Should I be nervous?

Declan: No. You should be... prepared for honesty. From all of us.

Reed: The good kind of honesty. The kind that makes everything clearer, not more complicated.

Adrian: Trust us?

I sit in my car outside Mom’s house, autumn air carrying wood smoke and fallen leaves through cracked windows, and realize I do trust them.

Despite everything, despite all my reasons to be careful, I trust these three men who coordinate dinner invitations instead of competing over my attention.

Me: I trust you. All of you.

Declan: Friday at seven. We’ll pick you up.

Reed: Wear something that makes you feel confident. You’re going to want to feel like yourself.

Adrian: Looking forward to it.

Me: Me too.

The drive home through the quiet October evening feels like driving toward something important instead of away from obligation. Streetlights cast pools of golden light on empty sidewalks, and the anticipation sitting warm in my chest has nothing to do with anxiety and everything to do with hope.

Family dinners activate different responses than pack time. With Mom, I’m the child seeking approval, my scent shifting to something smaller, more anxious. With them, I’m the adult being courted—confident, valued, respected. The contrast makes me realize how much I’ve grown.

By the time I pull into my driveway, I’m smiling despite not knowing exactly what Friday will bring.

I settle on my front porch, wrapped in my grandmother’s Afghan that smells like lavender and decades of being loved, and send one more message.

Me: Thank you. For checking on me tonight. For wanting to have dinner. For... all of it.

Declan: Thank you for trusting us with it.

Reed: See you Friday, Karma. It’s going to be good. I promise.

Adrian: Sweet dreams.

I lean back against my front door, phone warm in my hands, vanilla scent finally settled into something peaceful and anticipatory.

Friday. Honest conversation with three men who coordinate dinner invitations instead of competing for my attention, who check in during family dinners because they care how I’m doing .

Whatever they want to tell me, I’m ready to hear it. Ready to trust that some good things don’t disappear just because they seem too perfect to be real.