Page 38 of Knot Your Karma (Not Yours #1)
Heat floods my face as I realize I’ve been purring—low, satisfied rumble I haven’t noticed until now. “I’m not—that’s not—omegas don’t just purr randomly like satisfied house cats?—”
“You absolutely do.” Adrian’s construction-callused fingers find mine on the table, completely engulfing my hand. “Perfect response.”
“Please tell me this doesn’t involve criminals or black market dealings or people threatening my livelihood for recreational purposes.”
“Nothing threatening.” Adrian’s thumb finds my pulse point where it still hammers faster than normal. His organizational chart, I realize, isn’t construction-related—timeline with neat boxes and arrows, dates marked in precise block letters. “Pack structure. Foundation work.”
“Foundation work?”
Reed settles across from me with his own plate. “We’ve been considering the compass situation. Specifically, what Blake’s definition of ‘family heirloom’ actually means versus what it could mean.”
I pause with fork halfway to mouth, anxiety spiking despite the peaceful atmosphere. “What about it?”
Declan takes the chair to my right, completing the circle, and suddenly I am surrounded by pack scent and attention in ways that warm my chest even as worry crawls up my throat.
“Been thinking maybe the compass doesn’t need to go to Blake’s ceremony.” He watches my face with those blue eyes that miss nothing.
Fork clatters to my plate as I try to process this possibility. “What do you mean?”
“Blake doesn’t deserve it.” His hands curl into fists against weathered wood, knuckles going white. “Lost the right to Mitchell traditions when he decided to treat relationships like spreadsheet comparisons.”
“But it’s your family’s?—”
“It’s a family heirloom.” Reed’s voice remains steady despite the barely leashed protective fury emanating from him. “Question is which family gets to define what that means. Last I checked, performance metrics on omegas doesn’t exactly scream ‘family values.’”
Oh. Oh, they want to use the compass for our bonding ceremony, which makes my brain short-circuit because that’s the most beautiful kind of revenge I’ve ever heard of.
My coffee mug slips in nerveless fingers, and Declan catches it before impact, reflexes apparently designed for omega-related emergencies.
“You’re talking about us.” The words barely escape.
“We’re talking about us.” Adrian’s thumb finds my pulse where it hammers like trapped birds. Storm-gray eyes hold mine with intensity that constricts my chest. “If that’s something you’d want. When you’re ready to trust it.”
Words won’t come, and my throat closes up, and now I’m crying which is absolutely ridiculous because I’m supposed to be a functional adult who can handle good news without turning into a sobbing mess, but apparently my emotional regulation skills need work.
“A bonding ceremony.” The words feel foreign and exactly right on my tongue. My fingers trace the covered bite mark, and warmth spreads from the touch like recognition. “Our bonding ceremony.”
“With a compass representing finding true north.” Reed’s diplomatic mask slips to show genuine emotion—hope and want and something suspiciously like love. “Finding home. The irony is beautiful—Blake’s biggest mistake becoming our greatest blessing.”
“Blake’s compass becoming our compass.” I press both palms to my chest because my heart hammers hard enough to crack ribs. “The thing I stole from anger becoming the thing that celebrates everything good we’ve built.”
“Not revenge.” Declan’s voice roughens. “Redemption. The compass going where it belongs—with people who understand what family actually means.”
Emotion crashes through me so big it doesn’t fit in my chest, which sounds like a medical impossibility but heat apparently rewires your entire emotional processing system in ways that would concern a therapist.
This morning I woke up as a thoroughly claimed omega still processing pack meanings. Now they are discussing forever, ceremonies, taking Blake’s discard and transforming it into the foundation of something beautiful.
“I can’t—” Voice cracks completely. Stop, breathe, try again. “You want forever? With me?”
“Easy there, gorgeous.” Reed’s voice shakes slightly despite steady words.
“We’re discussing pack bonding with someone brilliant and passionate and brave enough to fight for what matters.
Someone who sees value in things others discard.
Someone who brings maritime artifacts alive with stories and talks to compass collections like they’re people, which is honestly my favorite thing about you. ”
“Someone who stole a family heirloom from spite?—”
“Someone who fought back when someone tried to destroy her.” Adrian’s voice carries quiet steel that spikes sandalwood protective and sharp. “Someone who refused victim status. Someone who took control of her story and built something better from the pieces.”
“Adrian builds everything to last.” Declan’s eyes find the covered bite mark with reverence and possession. “When he commits to foundation—building or bond—it’s permanent. No shortcuts, no temporary fixes.”
I look around the table at three men who have somehow become everything I didn’t know I was searching for, their combined scents creating harmony that smells like home and safety and possibility I never dared to imagine.
“You really want this? All of it? Pack bonding and ceremony and dealing with my trust issues and how I reorganize spice racks when anxious and probably say inappropriate things to maritime artifacts when I think no one is listening?”
“Especially the compass conversations.” Reed’s says with genuine affection. “Definitely my favorite. Though I’m curious about your filing system for particularly chatty sextants.”
“We want all of it.” Adrian’s hand engulfs mine. “Every neurotic organizational habit, every passionate expertise ramble, every way you make the world more interesting just by existing. Solid foundation.”
“We want you.” Declan’s voice carries absolute certainty that settles in my bones like truth. “Everything you are, everything you’ve been, everything you’re becoming. Pack bond, bonding ceremony, forever—if that’s what you want too.”
Tears come freely now—happy and overwhelmed and grateful beyond words. I press my free hand to my mouth, but the sob escapes anyway—relief and joy and disbelief wrapped in sound that makes all three lean closer with protective concern.
“I want it.” Voice breaks with the magnitude of admission. “Want all of it. Want forever with you, want the compass to mean something beautiful instead of broken, want to build something that actually lasts instead of hoping things don’t fall apart.”
“Then that’s what we build.” Declan reaches across to wipe tears with gentle thumbs. “Something that lasts.”
“But first,” Reed stands to refill my coffee, “we need to figure out how to make it happen without anyone ending up in jail. Or having to explain to my m?e why her son’s calling from federal prison.”
“Blake’s ceremony is three months out.” Adrian taps his timeline chart. “Fixed deadline. Work backwards from there.”
“For what?”
“Getting the compass back.” Something shifts in Declan’s voice. “And making sure Blake understands some things matter more than his convenience.”
“This could get complicated.” Someone needs to acknowledge the reality of challenging Sterling Ashworth and his network. “Potentially very legally complicated, requiring excellent lawyers and possibly fake passports.”
“Everything worth doing is complicated.” Adrian echoes earlier words. “Question is whether we face it together.”
“Together.” I look at each in turn.
“Pack handles pack business.” Reed raises his coffee mug in mock toast, sunlight catching rising steam.
“To pack business.” I lift my own mug with barely shaking hands. “And making Blake’s biggest mistake into our greatest blessing.”
“To true north.” Declan’s voice roughens with emotion. “And finding our way home.”
When our mugs touch, the soft clink sounds like the most important ceremony I have ever attended. Coffee sloshes slightly, and Reed laughs—warm and genuine and full of possibility.
We drink to that—to pack and possibility and beautiful justice of stolen compasses becoming symbols of everything good instead of everything broken.
And that feels like the most perfect kind of magic.