Page 100 of Knot Your Karma
We make our way to the back room, where I keep the pieces that are either too valuable, too fragile, or too mysterious for general display. Sterling immediately gravitates toward a brass sextant I’ve been researching for months, his expert hands recognizing quality craftsmanship even before examining the maker’s marks, fingers moving with the confidence of decades of experience.
“This is exquisite,” he murmurs, turning the instrument to catch the afternoon light streaming through the small window. “Early nineteenth century, possibly British naval issue. Have you traced the provenance?”
“Still working on it,” I admit. “The seller claimed it came from an estate in Portsmouth, but the documentation is sparse. I have my suspicions about its actual origin.”
The shop bell chimes again from the front room, followed by Fate’s polite “Welcome to What Goes Around!” But something in the quality of the silence that follows makes unease prickles along my arms like static electricity.
“Karma Rose,” a familiar voice calls from the front of the shop, and the words hit like ice water down my spine, hands freezing against the compass I’d been holding. “I know you’re back there, darling. We need to have a little chat.”
Sage Morrison.
The brass compass slips in my suddenly nerveless fingers as my vanilla scent goes sharp with panic, sweet warmth curdling into something that tastes like metal and fear.
Declan goes completely still, muscles coiling with tension I can feel from across the room. Sterling sets down the sextant with deliberate care, his fingers drumming once against his thigh—the only sign of emotion leaking through his composed exterior.
“Someone you know?” Sterling asks quietly, setting down the sextant.
“Unfortunately,” I whisper, the compass clicking against the workbench as my hands tremble. “Excuse me for just a moment.”
I push through the curtain separating the back room from the main shop, Declan close behind me, his presence both comforting and potentially catastrophic. Sage sweeps toward the counter, silk scarves trailing behind her like theatrical smoke, chunky silver bracelets jangling with each gesture, her movements calibrated for maximum visual impact.
“Sage,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “This is... unexpected.”
“Is it, though?” Sage’s smile could cut glass, her voice carrying that particular theatrical projection that makes every word feel like a performance. “I did mention we’d need to have a conversation about recent developments. You remember—about how certain situations were supposed to be handled with absolute discretion?”
Fate looks between us with obvious confusion, clearly sensing tension but not understanding its source. I catch her eye and try to convey stay calm, this is under control through facial expressions alone, though I’m not sure how convincing I am when my throat feels as if it’s closing.
“I’m not sure what you’re referring to,” I lie, but my voice comes out thin and shaky.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Sage’s laugh is pure theater, echoing off the shop walls with practiced drama. “Let’s not play these tedious little games. I’m talking about compass-related situations that led to very fortunate professional opportunities. I’m talking about how certain maritime experts suddenly found themselves with dream job offers from very wealthy, very influential collectors.”
My knees threaten to buckle while dust motes hang suspended in afternoon light that feels too bright, too revealing.Behind me, Declan moves closer, close enough that his presence becomes a wall of quiet support. His hand brushes my shoulder blade—barely a touch, but enough to remind me I’m not facing this alone.
“I think there might be some confusion—” I start, but my voice cracks on the second word.
“The only confusion,” Sage interrupts, moving closer to the counter, “is why I haven’t received appropriate recognition for my absolutely pivotal role in facilitating such a lovely outcome. After all, without my discreet services, certain valuable items would never have found their way to the right collector. Without my professional silence, certain unfortunate incidents might have had very different consequences.”
She’s talking about the compass.
“Sage, I think you might be misunderstanding?—”
“I understand perfectly.” Sage’s voice rises slightly, taking on the kind of theatrical projection that carries to every corner of the shop and probably through the curtained doorway. “I understand that when someone benefits from my professional services, there are certain expectations. I understand that finder’s fees are standard practice in our industry. I understand that ongoing professional relationships require mutual respect and appropriate compensation.”
She wants money. She wants credit. She wants access to Sterling’s network and my new position, and she’s threatening to destroy everything if she doesn’t get it. Behind me, Declan’s scent goes so sharp with rage I can taste metal on my tongue.
“I’m not sure what professional services you’re referring to,” I say thoughtfully, acutely aware of Declan’s growing tension behind me.
“Don’t be coy, darling. It really doesn’t suit you.” Sage leans against the counter with casual menace. “We both know exactly what services I provided. The discreet handling of family heirlooms. The placement with collectors who don’task uncomfortable questions about provenance. The professional silence about unfortunate origins.”
Behind me, Declan goes completely still in that particularly dangerous way alphas do when they’re calculating the most efficient way to eliminate a threat. I can practically feel the moment he connects the dots—compass, family heirloom, discreet handling, unfortunate origins. My pulse hammers against my throat while the shop’s familiar scents become overwhelming.
“Now,” Sage continues, apparently oblivious to the alpha tension building behind me, “I think a reasonable finder’s fee would be appropriate. Say, ten percent of your first year’s salary with Mr. Ashworth. Plus ongoing consulting opportunities, of course. I do so enjoy working with maritime specialists who understand the value of discretion.”
The silence stretches like a held breath. Fate looks absolutely bewildered, hands frozen on the ship’s clock. Declan’s scent has gone so sharp it could cut, and I’m standing in the middle of it all, watching my built world crumble while my knees threaten to give out entirely.
“That’s an interesting proposition,” a new voice says from the curtained doorway.
Sterling emerges from the back room with the kind of calm, measured movement that suggests he’s heard every word of this conversation. He adjusts his cufflinks twice before speaking, his voice remaining perfectly level while his fingers drum once against his thigh—the only sign of emotion leaking through practiced control. His expression is politely interested, but there’s something underneath—a coldness that makes Sage’s theatrical menace look like amateur dramatics.
