Page 41 of Knot Your Karma
The words hit something deep in my chest, loosening a knot I didn’t know was there. Blake convinced me I had to earn love by being perfect, by never causing problems, by making myself smaller and easier to handle.
But Destiny’s right. They deserve my truth delivered with courage, not desperation.
I stare at my phone sitting safely out of reach on the coffee table. Outside, the storm has moved on, leaving behind clear skies and the kind of quiet that feels like the world holding its breath.
“What if tomorrow comes and I can’t do it?”
“Then I’ll help you find the words. But Karma—” She turns to face me fully, her dark eyes serious but kind. “You’re going to do it. Because staying Blake’s victim isn’t an option anymore, and we both know it.”
“Okay,” I whisper, sinking deeper into her embrace. “Tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow morning,” she agrees, reaching for the remote. “Now, what’s it going to be—rom-com or true crime documentary? Because you need something to occupy your brain that isn’t catastrophic thinking.”
“Rom-com,” I say without hesitation. “I need to remember that sometimes people get happy endings.”
“Good choice.” She queues up something cheerful and predictable, then settles back beside me. “And Karma? Tomorrow you’re going to find out if you get one too.”
Karma
Sunlight stabsthrough my bedroom curtains like it’s personally offended by my life choices and has decided to file a formal complaint directly with my eyeballs. October morning light has no business being this vindictive, but apparently the universe has very strong opinions about wine-bottle surgery and emotional breakdowns involving power tools.
I roll over and immediately regret every decision that led to this moment. My mouth tastes like I’ve been licking cork residue off concrete, there’s definitely a tiny construction crew jackhammering behind my eyeballs, and according to my phone, it’s two o’clock in the afternoon.
“Oh, God,” I groan into my pillow, pressing the heels of my palms against my temples. “This is what I get for drinking my feelings instead of dealing with them like a functional adult human being.”
Hangovers make everything worse for omegas—scents too sharp, emotions too raw, anxiety sitting just under my skin like static electricity looking for somewhere to ground. Even my grandmother’s familiar honeyed candle smells wrong, too sweet and cloying instead of comforting.
I reach for my phone to check the time again, and the screen lights up with approximately seventeen missed messages. My pulse hammers so hard the neighbors probably filed a noise complaint.
The group chat notification makes my stomach drop into my shoes and possibly through the floor.
Compass RecoveryDeclan, Reed, Adrian, Karma
I scroll up to see when this started, and apparently they’ve been texting since nine this morning while I was unconscious from wine therapy and self-loathing.
Declan: Found the bastard who has it. Sterling Ashworth. Rich collector, thinks he’s untouchable.
Reed: Please tell me this doesn’t end with me calling my mãe to explain why her son is in federal prison.
Adrian: It won’t.
Declan: Guy won’t sell. But there’s an auction tonight. Invitation only.
Reed: Opportunity is your favorite word right before I need bail money and excellent lawyers who specialize in international incidents.
Declan: Black market maritime network. Sage got us invitations. Sometimes public pressure changes minds about questionable pieces.
My blood turns to ice water in my veins, which would be more poetic if it wasn’t accompanied by the distinct feeling that my soul just evacuated my body through my feet.
They’re not just talking about any auction—they’re talking about entering the exact criminal network I’ve been hiding from like it’s my own personal nightmare fuel. The same network where Sage moves stolen goods and people definitely recognize faces and ask the kind of uncomfortable questions that end with people disappearing permanently.
My scent glands burn with the acrid smell of fear mixed with guilt—omega distress that I can’t suppress no matter how much I try to project calm.
That bitch set me up.
Reed: So we’re infiltrating shady antique dealers to convince someone to sell us back a family heirloom.
Declan: Eight PM. Harbor district gallery. Cocktail attire required because crime has dress codes.
