Page 103 of Knot Your Karma
“So,” Fate says eventually, picking up the ship’s clock again with renewed confidence, “is this typical for the antique business? Because I should probably adjust my expectations accordingly.”
“No,” I laugh, my shoulders finally dropping for the first time in twenty minutes. “This is definitely not typical. Most of our drama involves pricing disputes and people trying to return obviously fake pieces they bought at garage sales.”
“Good to know. I was starting to wonder if I’d signed up for some kind of criminal enterprise.”
“Just the regular kind of criminal enterprise,” Reed says with a grin that transforms his entire face with mischief. “You know, buying low, selling high, occasionally helping people launder their grandmother’s guilt through strategic estate sales.”
“Reed,” I protest, but I’m smiling.
“What? I’m just saying, the emotional money laundering business is very lucrative. People pay excellent prices to feel better about family drama.”
Sterling laughs—genuine, delighted laughter thattransforms his entire face from professional authority to genuine warmth. “I like your pack, Karma. They have excellent priorities.”
“They’re not bad,” I agree, warmth spreading through my chest. “They’re definitely growing on me.”
“Growing on you?” Declan’s voice carries mock offense. “We’re bonded. I think we’ve moved past the growing stage.”
“Fine. You’ve fully grown on me. Like particularly attractive barnacles.”
“Romantic,” Adrian says drily. “Nothing says eternal love like maritime parasite metaphors.”
“Hey, barnacles are incredibly tenacious. Once they attach, they’re permanent.” I grin at all three of them. “I could do worse for a pack bonding analogy.”
“Much worse,” Reed agrees. “I was expecting something about anchors or compasses. Barnacles are refreshingly unexpected.”
“Speaking of unexpected,” Sterling says, adjusting his coat with renewed purpose, “I should probably get back to examining your inventory. Near-blackmail attempts aside, I’m genuinely curious about some of the pieces you’ve collected.”
“Of course! And thank you again for...” I gesture vaguely toward the door where Sage made her dramatic exit.
“For recognizing quality when I see it,” Sterling says simply, his smile warm with paternal affection. “Both in antiques and in people.”
Sage was wrong about a lot of things, but she was right about one: everything did work out remarkably well for me.
And for the first time, I’m starting to believe I actually deserve it.
Declan
The Harborview Historic Inn’slobby smells like pine garland and expensive bourbon when I walk in to check on my parents, but underneath the holiday warmth runs an undercurrent of my own nervous energy.
My shoulders bunch with tension as I approach the front desk, where the receptionist, Margaret, greets me with her usual professional warmth, her beta scent carrying notes of efficiency and genuine kindness.
“Mr. Mitchell! Your parents checked in about an hour ago. Room twelve, just as you requested. They seemed delighted with the harbor view.”
“Perfect. Thanks for the last-minute accommodation.” I hand over my credit card. “Put any extras on my account. They’re here for my bonding ceremony.”
“How wonderful! Congratulations.” Margaret’s smile transforms her entire face with genuine warmth. “The whole town’s been talking about Christmas Eve. Such a romantic time for a ceremony.”
“We’re looking forward to it.” The understatement of the century. In one week, I’ll be formally bonding with my pack in front of both families and the entire Anchor’s Rest community.The thought fills me with equal parts anticipation and terror.
I head upstairs, finding room twelve easily. The sound of my mother’s laughter carries through the door—bright and familiar and exactly what I needed to hear after the stress of the last few days.
I knock, and Dad opens the door with the kind of smile he reserves for successful business ventures and family gatherings, his alpha scent carrying notes of satisfaction and paternal pride.
“Declan! There’s our boy.” James Mitchell pulls me into one of his brief, backslapping hugs that somehow manages to convey affection without actual emotional intimacy, his grip firm but controlled. “Your mother’s been bouncing off the walls since we got the invitation, and Father’s been researching the town’s history all morning.”
“James, let him breathe before you start the interrogation,” Mom calls from somewhere inside. “I want to hear everything about this pack that’s got our son so happy.”
I step into the suite, taking in the elegant furnishings and harbor view that probably costs more per night than most people’s rent. The space smells like family—Mom’s lavender, Dad’s alpha essence, and Father’s steady pine creating the complex harmony of my childhood.
