Page 37 of Knot Your Karma (Not Yours #1)

Karma

I wake up feeling like I’ve been thoroughly dismantled and reassembled by three alphas who apparently treat omega satisfaction like a competitive sport they’re determined to win.

The nest smells like a pack scent explosion—Declan’s rain-soaked wood mixed with Reed’s ocean spray and Adrian’s sandalwood in ways that tell the whole story of last night’s claiming marathon, which would be embarrassing if it didn’t smell so perfectly like home.

I’m alone among the rumpled fabric, but movement drifts up from the kitchen—quiet voices and the sound of someone who actually understands breakfast beyond my usual caffeine-and-whatever-doesn’t-require-cooking routine.

When I try to sit up, my thighs tremble like I’ve attempted marathon running while carrying furniture. Which seems accurate if marathons involved multiple rounds of claiming by men with apparently infinite stamina and very detailed approaches to omega satisfaction.

My fingertips find Adrian’s claiming bite on my neck, which throbs with this pleasant heat that would be embarrassing to explain to anyone .

“Easy there.” Declan’s voice carries up the stairwell.

Declan shows up in my doorway carrying a tray that smells like heaven, which is impressive because my usual breakfast involves coffee that tastes like filtered disappointment and whatever doesn’t require actual cooking skills.

His dark hair sticks up at angles from finger-raking, but those storm-blue eyes immediately scan me with an intensity that straightens my spine automatically.

“Report,” he says, settling the tray on my nightstand with careful movements before perching on the bed’s edge. “And don’t say fine because we both know that’s omega-speak for everything hurts but I’m pretending it doesn’t. ”

I accept the coffee with hands that only shake slightly. The first sip tastes like liquid salvation—real cream swirled through dark roast instead of whatever powdered chemical usually masquerades as dairy in my kitchen. The appreciative sound I make can probably be heard in neighboring towns.

“Like I’ve been thoroughly demolished by a very competent wrecking crew,” I admit. “Also like every romance novel I’ve ever read committed false advertising about post-claiming recovery time. Pretty sure there’s grounds for a class action lawsuit by disappointed omegas everywhere.”

His smile transforms stern features—laugh lines crinkling around eyes that soften with something suspiciously close to adoration.

“Good demolition or bad demolition?”

“Mixed results. They nailed the thoroughly satisfied part, but seriously underestimated the my entire skeletal system feels disassembled and reassembled by enthusiastic but slightly inexperienced mechanics aspect.”

His palm finds my ankle through the quilt, thumb stroking gently.

“Reed produced enough anchor-shaped pancakes to supply a museum.” His voice carries fond exasperation mixed with unmistakable pride. “Adrian’s been stress- organizing your kitchen since five AM. Pretty sure he color-coordinated your tea collection.”

“He what?” I blink, processing this while something low in my belly flutters with warmth. “I don’t color-coordinate anything. I organize by caffeine content and stack-ability, which is a completely logical system requiring zero improvement.”

“He also labeled everything. Tiny block letters like architectural blueprints.”

I stare at him, coffee suspended halfway to my mouth while steam rises between us. “He labeled spices I use daily. Spices I definitely know the names of because I’m not suffering from condiment-related amnesia.”

“That’s how Adrian processes giving someone a claiming bite.” Something shifts in Declan’s expression. “Everything is permanent. Reed says he’s been at it since dawn, muttering about optimal storage and accessibility while reorganizing your pantry like he’s defusing ordnance.”

My thumb finds the bite mark again, pressing until I have to swallow a whimper. The thought of Adrian claiming my kitchen with the same thoroughness he claimed my body pools heat low in my belly despite lingering soreness.

There is just something so hot about a big burly guy cleaning.

“And Reed?”

“Making nautical pancakes while providing detailed commentary on syrup aerodynamics.” His expression suggests this is both normal and mildly concerning. “Think he’s nervous about whether you regret what happened.”

Cedar sharpens as his hand stills on my ankle, his thumb pausing mid-circle. The careful way he watches me suggests he’s prepared for rejection.

Which he won’t get.

“We all are,” he admits, voice rougher than usual. “Whether we moved too fast. Whether you regret letting us claim you. Whether pack bond is what you actually want or just what heat convinced you that you wanted.”

The vulnerability in those words—like he’s braced for me to say this was all a mistake—makes my chest clench tight enough to steal my breath.

“Declan.” I set down coffee and reach for his hand, lacing our fingers together.

When I meet his eyes, something shifts—blue darkening.

“Do I regret it? No. Should I probably regret it? Maybe. Am I overthinking whether I should regret not regretting it? Absolutely. But my heat might have accelerated the timeline—it didn’t create feelings that weren’t already there. ”

His grip tightens, his thumb finding my pulse where it hammers against delicate skin. “Hoped so. But hope and certainty are different foundations.”

“Then let me give you certainty.” The words still him completely.

His free hand finds my nape, thumb pressing Adrian’s bite mark with possession that arches me toward him unconsciously.

“I choose this. Choose you, all of you, pack bond and everything that comes with it. Not because biology made me, but because you’re the first people who’ve ever acted like I might actually be worth choosing back. ”

“Good.” The word rumbles through his chest. “Because we’re not going anywhere.”

“Even when I’m not in heat and probably much more neurotic about reasonable concerns like bathroom scheduling and whether my Victorian plumbing can handle three additional people’s daily showers without staging a revolt requiring professional intervention?”

“Especially then.”

We sit there in comfortable quiet, his thumb tracing patterns against my pulse while my brain tries to process what pack bond actually means in terms of bathroom schedules and whether my Victorian plumbing can handle three additional showers .

Three additional people in my space, my decisions, my life.

Three people to worry about, care for, consider when making plans.

Three people who’ll see me at absolute worst—not just heat-driven desperation, but Tuesday morning grumpiness and bill-paying anxiety and how I talk to antique compasses when I think no one is listening.

“I should get up,” I yawn, my jaw cracking in the process. “Head to the shop.”

“Reality can wait.” Declan pauses choosing his words carefully. “You’re priority one right now.”

“But the shop?—”

“Handled. We made sure.” The command settles in my bones like truth. “Today is about proper recovery. Get dressed”

I snort because he makes it sound easier than it likely is.

I’m right, of course. Getting dressed takes longer because my legs still shake and Declan hovers like I might collapse without warning. Sweet, but also turns putting on underwear into a performance about omega recovery and alpha protective instincts.

“I can dress myself,” I tell him when he steadies my elbow stepping into jeans that feel too snug around still-sensitive thighs.

“I know you can. Doesn’t mean I’m not making sure you don’t face-plant doing it.”

His hand doesn’t leave my elbow—warm, steady anchor as I pull on yesterday’s sweater. The cashmere smells like pack now instead of just me.

“What if I never stop being shaky? Like, what if this is my life now—needing alpha assistance for basic functions like stair navigation or doorknob operation? What if I’ve become one of those omegas who’s basically useless without constant supervision, which sounds romantic in theory but would make grocery shopping a logistical nightmare?—”

“Then we handle it.” He cuts through my spiral. “Not exactly hardship, keeping you steady.”

The casual way he says it—like being needed isn’t burden but privilege—tightens my throat with unnamed emotion.

By the time we make it downstairs, my kitchen smells like heaven, which is suspicious because I definitely can’t cook like this and Reed wasn’t supposed to be this competent at domestic goddess activities.

Sunlight streams through lace curtains, catching steam rising from golden pancakes.

Reed stands at the stove flipping what appears to be a slightly lopsided anchor, hair mussed, wearing an apron declaring Kiss the Cook in faded letters.

A flour handprint decorates his hip where he’s absently wiped his palm.

Adrian’s sitting at my grandmother’s table with coffee and what looks like a detailed organizational chart, because apparently claiming your omega means immediately reorganizing her entire life, which should annoy me but mostly makes me want to purr.

Behind him, my spice rack displays tiny jars arranged by color—deep reds flowing to warm oranges to pale yellows like seasoning sunset.

“Morning, gorgeous.” Reed doesn’t turn around, but a smile threads through his voice mixed with careful attention suggesting he’s been listening for footsteps. “Scale of one to just discovered what three alphas accomplish when they coordinate, how are we feeling?”

“Solidly at thoroughly satisfied omega who’s regained most cognitive functions but still gets distracted by how good everyone smells. ” I settle beside Adrian.

“Perfect.” Reed slides a plate in front of me—anchor-shaped pancake with geometrically precise syrup pools, properly crisped bacon, eggs that belong in food magazines instead of on everyday china. “Because we have pack logistics to discuss.”