Page 19 of Knot Your Karma
“Of course,” I whisper.
“Excellent.” Sage stands. “I’ll be in touch within the next day or two. Mr. Mitchell, I do hope you’re prepared to pay a premium for Sterling’s cooperation. He’s not motivated by sentimentality.”
“Whatever it takes,” Declan says firmly.
We leave the workshop, stepping back into salt air and seagull cries, and I make it approximately half a block before everything starts to hit me.
Holy hell. She knows exactly where the compass is. She could have told him I’m the one who sold it to her. She could have destroyed my entire life with one sentence, and instead she’s actually helping him get it back.
“That went better than expected,” Declan says, and he sounds genuinely happy for the first time since I met him. “We actually have a real lead. A name, a location, a plan.”
Better than expected.Right. Except for the part where I’m still lying to your face about being the reason your family heirloom went missing in the first place.
“Yeah,” I say, and my voice comes out strained. I start walking faster, needing movement, needing air. “Great news.”
“Karma.” The moment my breathing goes shallow, Declan’s head snaps toward me. He steps closer, one hand hovering near my elbow without touching. His whole body goes alert, like he’s ready to catch me if I fall. “Hey. You’re doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Looking like you’re about to pass out. What’s wrong?”
What’s wrong? Oh, just that I’m walking next to a man who thinks I’m helping him solve his family crisis when I’m actually the person who created it.
“I just... okay, this is a lot, right? Like, working with someone I barely know on something this important, getting involved in family drama when I can barely handle my own life, the pressure of tracking down something irreplaceable when I lose my car keys twice a week...” The words tumble out faster than I can stop them, and my breathing starts getting shallow. I reach for the nearest wall, pressing my palm against weathered brick. “What if we can’t get it back? What if this Ashworth guy won’t sell? What if I’m not actually helpful and you realize I don’t know what I’m doing and?—”
My chest constricts. Each breath gets smaller, shallower. The harbor sounds—seagulls, boat engines, distant voices—fade to a dull roar. I press both palms against the brick wall, but my hands won’t stop shaking. The rough surface scrapes my skin.
Yep, the guilt is eating me alive. That is what this is.
Death by guilt.
I’m done for.
“I can’t breathe,” I gasp, one hand pressed to my chest. “I can’t?—”
And then Declan moves without hesitation, positioning himself between me and the street. His shoulders square, and he scans the area like he’s looking for threats. His whole posture changes—shoulders squaring, stance widening like he’s ready to shield me from whatever’s causing my distress.
“Karma,” he says quietly, his presence settling around me like armor. “You’re having a panic attack. I need you to breathe with me, okay?”
I look up, into his dark blue eyes that are focused entirely on me, and something in my chest starts to loosen.
“In for four,” he says, demonstrating. “Hold for four. Out for four.”
Box breathing. I know what this is, I can totally do this.
Except he’s so nice and I’m a lying girl.
I try to follow his rhythm, but my breath keeps catching, and?—
And then he’s kissing me.
It starts soft, gentle, like he’s trying to ground me rather than seduce me. His lips are warm and sure against mine, and the moment they touch, my omega brain goes completely quiet. The panic stops. The racing thoughts stop. Everything stops except the feeling of his mouth against mine and the way his presence settles around me like protection.
The moment his lips touch mine, my racing heart starts to slow. The panic just... stops. My hands unclench from their fists, and I melt into the warmth of his touch. My hands unclench from their fists. A sound tries to escape my throat—soft, pleased, completely embarrassing—and I have to swallow it down.
His hands slide into my hair, and the kiss deepens, becomes more intentional. Hungrier. I can taste cedar andrain and something essentially him, and every nerve ending in my body lights up. My hands fist in his flannel shirt, and I can’t decide if I’m anchoring myself or trying to climb him like a tree.
When we break apart, my knees decide they’re done with the whole supporting-my-body-weight thing, and I have to grip his shirt to stay upright like some kind of Victorian heroine having a moment. Something in my chest unlocks—a tension I didn’t know I was carrying suddenly gone like someone just performed surgery on my soul. My breathing matches his without conscious effort, which should probably be terrifying but instead feels like my body just found its missing instruction manual.
