Page 43 of Knot Your Karma (Not Yours #1)

Karma

Two hours into our drive to Boston, I’m beginning to understand why pack bonding traditionally happens in large territories with plenty of space to spread out.

Declan’s knuckles go white on the steering wheel as he navigates another construction detour. “Boston wasn’t designed for cars,” he mutters from the driver’s seat. “Or logic. Or people who actually need to get places.”

In the passenger seat, Adrian monitors road signs with tactical focus.

I switched to the back seat at our last rest stop—something about being surrounded by pack felt more grounding than riding shotgun—and now Reed and I share the space, pack scents mixing until the air itself thrums with nervous energy.

The rental car feels smaller with each mile.

“Take the next exit,” the GPS announces for the third time in ten minutes.

“Someone ate the last of the trail mix,” I mutter, digging through empty wrappers scattered across my lap. “I’m hypoglycemic when nervous.”

“Stress eating,” Adrian admits, his storm-gray eyes meeting mine in the side mirror. “I’ll grab more at the next stop. ”

The small conflict dissolves immediately, but the underlying tension remains—we’re all on edge about tonight. About Sterling’s private viewing, about whatever test he has planned, about walking into his territory where he controls every variable.

“There’s a Dunkin’ at the next exit,” Declan offers, which is peak Boston problem-solving. “Coffee and something substantial before we check into the inn.”

“I love how your answer to everything is Dunkin’ Donuts,” I say, adjusting my seatbelt as he signals to change lanes—which in Boston traffic is less signal and more declaration of intent.

“Dunkin’ is reliable. Dunkin’ doesn’t judge. Dunkin’ doesn’t try to manipulate maritime antique experts into compromising situations.” His blue eyes find mine in the rearview mirror. “Unlike certain millionaire collectors we’re about to confront.”

Right. Sterling Ashworth. The reason we’re driving to Boston instead of staying home where I can pretend my biggest problem is organizing vintage maritime equipment.

“Let’s recap the plan,” Reed says from beside me, shifting into diplomatic strategy mode.

Ocean breeze sharpens with focus. “Karma handles maritime expertise and authentication. Declan manages the overall negotiation strategy. Adrian covers security and threat assessment. I provide diplomatic support and creative problem-solving.”

“And if Sterling tries to separate us or put me in a compromised position?” I ask, though we’ve covered this multiple times.

“Pack stays together,” Adrian says firmly, his construction-strong hands relaxed despite the tension radiating from his sandalwood scent. “No individual consultations, no private conversations, no divide-and-conquer tactics.”

“What if he insists on testing my knowledge alone? Authentication work sometimes requires private examination.”

“Then we politely explain that the pack operates as a unit,” Declan replies, taking the Dunkin’ exit with decisive precision. “Sterling can accept our terms or we walk.”

“Even if walking means losing the compass?”

The question hangs in the car air, mixing with our combined scents as my pack processes the implications. Because that’s the real fear, isn’t it? That Sterling will demand impossible terms, and I’ll be the reason we lose Blake’s family heirloom after coming this far.

“Especially if walking means losing the compass,” Reed says with absolute certainty. “The compass doesn’t matter more than pack safety.”

“But it’s our bonding ceremony?—”

“And there’s only one Karma,” Adrian interrupts, his voice carrying quiet steel that makes sandalwood spike protective and warm.

The simple statement makes my chest tight with emotion I can’t name. They’d give up the compass—the symbol of their pack future, the beautiful justice of taking Blake’s loss and transforming it into their blessing—to keep me safe.

“You can’t mean that.”

“We absolutely mean that,” Declan says, pulling into the Dunkin’ parking lot with controlled movements that speak to barely leashed protective instincts. “Sterling can play whatever games he wants, but he doesn’t get to endanger you for maritime antique entertainment.”

Their commitment hits me like a physical weight, which sounds dramatic but apparently having three people choose you over a priceless family heirloom does things to your emotional stability that probably require professional terminology.

For months, I bought into Blake’s whole assessment that I was too much work, too needy, too high-maintenance for anyone to choose me over convenience, which in hindsight seems like exactly the kind of thing a guy with performance spreadsheets would say.

But here are three men who’d choose me over a priceless family heirloom without hesitation.

My phone buzzes in my lap, interrupting the emotional moment. Unknown number, Boston area code.

My blood goes cold.

“Don’t answer it,” Reed says immediately, diplomatic instincts reading my tension through pack bonds and body language.

Too late. My thumb hits answer before my brain can stop it.

“Hello?”

“Karma.” Blake’s voice fills the car through the speakers, familiar and condescending and carrying that particular tone that means he wants something and expects me to provide it without question. “We need to talk.”

All three of them go completely still, which is somehow more terrifying than if they’d started yelling.

“Hang up,” Declan snarls. “Right fucking now.”

Reed lunges forward between the seats. “Don’t let him?—”

“We need to talk,” Blake continues, and Adrian’s whole body goes predator-still.

“No,” Adrian says, voice deadly quiet. “We don’t.”

But my thumb is already moving toward the speaker button, and my pack goes collectively tense, ready to intervene the second Blake crosses a line.

“Blake.” My voice comes out steadier than expected despite my heart hammering against my ribs. “How did you get this number?”

“Declan’s been asking around the family about the compass, which naturally came to my attention.

Then I see social media posts from that quaint little coffee shop near your.

.. establishment. Something about ‘cosmic justice’ and road trips.

Rather juvenile, but not difficult to piece together.

” His voice carries that smugness that means he thinks he’s being clever. “This is a fascinating development.”

Declan’s hands grip the steering wheel like he’s strangling it. Reed’s breathing becomes sharp and controlled. Adrian calculates the distance to Blake through the phone with the focus of someone planning structural demolition.

“I don’t know what you think is happening?—”

“I think you’ve manipulated my brother into helping you profit from stolen property,” Blake interrupts. “Classic omega victim behavior—find strong alphas and convince them you need rescuing.”

“That’s enough,” Declan cuts in, voice carrying command authority that makes the car windows vibrate. “You don’t get to?—”

“Blake,” Reed interrupts with diplomatic steel that could cut glass, “you lost the right to have opinions about Karma’s life when you made spreadsheets rating her performance.”

Adrian says nothing, but his scent goes so dark with controlled violence that I taste copper on my tongue.

I hold up my hand—my choice, my fight. “Let me handle this.”

“But I know what you really are, Karma,” Blake continues with that familiar condescending tone that used to make me apologize for existing. “You’re the same needy, clingy omega who couldn’t handle a mature relationship.”

The old me would have crumbled. The old me would have stammered apologies and tried to prove I wasn’t those things.

But the old me didn’t have my guys.

“I didn’t steal anything, Blake.” My voice carries new strength. “I took something that represented the value you destroyed when you rated my sexual performance on spreadsheets.”

Shocked silence through the phone .

Reed makes a sound of fierce approval. Declan’s scent spikes with pride so intense it makes my eyes water. Adrian’s storm-gray eyes meet mine in the mirror with reverence and possession that makes heat pool low in my belly.

“That’s right,” I continue, watching my pack’s expressions shift from protective fury to fierce pride. “I know about your performance metrics. I know about the multiple omegas you were stringing along simultaneously while making each of us believe we were special.”

“Karma, you’re being dramatic?—”

“I’m being honest. For the first time in our entire relationship, I’m telling you exactly what I think instead of managing your ego.

” Months of suppressed anger suddenly find their way to my mouth, which is probably going to be a problem but feels incredible right now.

“You used me, Blake. You made me believe I was too needy, too high-maintenance, too much work for anyone to love.”

“Fucking right,” Reed mutters, ocean breeze spiking with protective satisfaction.

“You’re overreacting?—”

“I’m reacting appropriately to systematic emotional abuse.” The words come out clear and strong. Declan reaches back and squeezes my hand, grounding touch that reminds me I’m not alone anymore. “And I’m done letting you define my worth.”

“Listen, whatever game you think you’re playing with my brother?—”

“I’m not playing games. I found a pack who actually values me instead of rating me.

I found people who think wanting commitment makes me worth keeping, not high-maintenance.

” My voice gets stronger with each word, supported by the protective energy filling the car.

“I found what I was looking for when I thought I was looking for you.”

My voice cracks slightly, months of suppressed truth finally breaking free.

“I spent eight months thinking there was something wrong with me because I wanted you to be proud of me instead of rating me. But I was never the problem, Blake.” My pack’s protective energy wraps around me like armor. “You were.”

He starts to respond—more manipulation, more attempts to make me doubt myself—but I don’t need to hear it anymore.

I hang up.

For the first time in months, I end a conversation with Blake Mitchell on my terms.

Immediately, I block his number with hands that shake only slightly from adrenaline.

The car falls silent except for engine noise and distant Boston traffic. My pack processes what just happened—me standing up to Blake, refusing his manipulation, hanging up instead of enduring his verbal abuse.

“Holy shit,” I whisper, staring at the blocked contact confirmation. “I can’t believe I did that.”

The adrenaline crash hits like a tidal wave, making my hands shake and my chest tight with leftover anxiety. “Oh god, he’s probably calling Declan right now. He’s probably furious. What if he?—”

“Hey.” Declan’s voice cuts through my spiral. “Breathe, sweetheart. You did nothing wrong.”

“But what if he tries to turn you against me? What if he convinces you that I’m just?—”

“Not happening,” Adrian says firmly, signaling Declan to pull over to the shoulder so we can address pack needs properly. Hazards clicking on, traffic rushing past us as they prioritize pack over destination. “Blake’s opinion stopped mattering the moment we chose you.”

Reed immediately wraps his arms around me from beside me, ocean breeze mixing with protective comfort. “You were incredible back there. Absolutely fucking incredible. But you’re allowed to fall apart a little now.”

“I don’t want to fall apart,” I hiccup against his shoulder, pressing my face into the warm scent of ocean and safety. “I want to be strong enough to handle Blake without breaking down.”

“Strength isn’t avoiding the breakdown,” Declan says, reaching back to stroke my hair with gentle fingers. “Strength is having people who’ll hold you together while you process.”

“I couldn’t have done that alone,” I whisper, still pressed against Reed’s chest while Declan’s hand combs through my hair and Adrian’s protective energy fills the car. “Six months ago, Blake’s call would have destroyed me for weeks. But with you three...”

“You found your voice because you knew you were safe,” Reed murmurs against my temple. “That’s what pack does—makes you brave enough to be yourself.”

“He called me needy and clingy. Just like he used to. Like wanting basic relationship honesty was some kind of character flaw.”

“Wanting honesty isn’t a character flaw,” Adrian says, his voice carrying controlled fury that has nothing to do with me and everything to do with Blake. “Rating your partner’s sexual performance on spreadsheets is a character flaw.”

“He made you apologize for having needs,” Declan adds. “That’s not love, Karma. That’s control.”

“I know that now.” I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. “I know the difference because of you three. You make me feel like wanting love makes me worth keeping, not high-maintenance.”

“Because it does,” Reed says simply. “Wanting love, wanting commitment, wanting someone to be proud of you—that’s what makes relationships worth having.”

We sit on the highway shoulder for another few minutes, hazard lights blinking, pack scents mixing in the small space until I feel grounded again. Safe again. Ready to face whatever comes next.

The Blake call changed something fundamental inside me. Not just standing up to him, but the realization of how much I’ve grown, how much stronger I am with pack support. How much my worth isn’t dependent on his approval or anyone else’s.

“Okay,” I say finally, straightening up and wiping the last tears from my cheeks. “I’m ready to continue to Boston now.”

“You sure?” Adrian asks, studying my face with careful attention.

“I’m sure. Blake’s had months to make me doubt myself. I’m done giving him that power.”

Adrian checks mirrors while Declan signals back onto the highway.

We merge into traffic with new energy—not just heading toward Sterling’s confrontation, but carrying the strength of what just happened.

The proof that I can stand up to manipulation, that my pack will support me through anything, that I know my own worth now.

“For the record,” Reed says as we settle back into driving rhythm, “watching you hang up on Blake was incredibly fucking brave.”

Adrian’s storm-gray eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, and his sandalwood scent spikes with fierce approval. “Exactly what he deserved.”

“It’s true though,” Declan adds. “You didn’t just stand up to him—you stated your worth like it was a fact instead of an opinion.”

“It is a fact,” I say, surprising myself with how steady my voice sounds. “I’m worth more than performance spreadsheets and comparison shopping.”

“Much more,” Adrian agrees quietly.