Page 42 of Knot Your Karma
Adrian: Karma comes with us.
Reed: Agreed. We need someone who actually knows what they’re talking about instead of three men with good intentions and questionable judgment calls.
Declan: She’s the expert. We’re just the muscle and charm.
Adrian: She stays close to me.
I start typing and deleting responses, my fingers fumbling against the screen while my wine-addled brain struggles to figure out how to handle this without confessing everything via group text.
Karma: Just saw your messages. Wine headache but functional. This sounds... complicated.
The response is immediate.
Declan: Complicated’s my middle name. You okay with that?
Reed: We can handle complicated if you’re with us. I’ve got smoozing covered, Adrian handles intimidation, and Declan provides controlled rage, which is surprisingly effective in negotiations involving stubborn rich people.
Adrian: You stay close to me tonight.
The last message makes my pulse skip in a way that has nothing to do with hangover anxiety.
Karma: Okay. Yes. I can do complicated. What do you need me to do?
Declan: Be our expert. Help us identify the real players from the pretenders.
Reed: And look gorgeous so people want to talk to us instead of immediately sensing our criminal inexperience and calling security faster than we can say family heirloom.
Adrian: Stay close.
Karma: When are you picking me up?
Declan: Hour. Need to go over the plan.
In one hour, three men are coming to my house to plan an infiltration of the exact criminal network I’ve been trying to avoid. An event where I could be recognized, exposed, or worse—where Sage could decide that having me there is the perfect opportunity to eliminate her little problem permanently.
I drag myself to the shower, letting hot water pound against my skull until the jackhammering subsides to amanageable throb. The vintage navy dress I choose belonged to my grandmother—classic lines, expensive fabric, the kind of timeless elegance that fits in anywhere from charity galas to criminal auctions. The irony isn’t lost on me.
When the doorbell rings, I check my reflection one more time. Professional, competent, definitely not someone who spent last night having emotional breakdowns over stolen family heirlooms and poor life choices.
The moment I open the door, three distinct scents hit me like a freight train made of pheromones and poor life choices, and my omega biology responds before my hangover brain can process what’s happening—lungs expanding like I’ve been holding my breath for hours, shoulders dropping like someone just removed fifty-pound weights, the wine headache finally easing as my body recognizes safety in the form of three men who could probably bench press my entire emotional baggage collection.
Declan stands there in a dark suit that makes his shoulders look impossible, his jaw already set with that controlled fury that means he’s ready for war.
Reed wears a blazer that probably costs more than my monthly rent, his diplomatic smile perfectly calibrated but his eyes sharp with intelligence.
Adrian fills out all black in a way that makes his storm-gray eyes even more intense, his presence immediately making my front porch feel like the safest place in Rhode Island.
“Jesus, Karma,” Declan says, his gaze moving over me with obvious approval and something possessive that makes my knees weak. His Boston accent bleeds through when he’s like this—focused, protective, ready to solve problems with his hands if necessary. “You look incredible.”
“It was a very sophisticated wine-wrestling match,” I say, stepping aside to let them into my hallway. “Lots of strategyinvolved. Complex tactical decisions. The wine had better technique, but I had superior motivation.”
“Did the wine win?” Reed asks with his perfectly timed humor. “Because from your texts, it sounded like the wine might have won.”
“The wine and I reached a mutual understanding about respecting each other’s boundaries and not making important life decisions together.”
“Feeling better?” Declan asks, his blue eyes automatically scanning my face for signs of distress with the thoroughness of someone who’s made it his job to notice when people are struggling.
“Functional. Caffeinated. Ready to pretend I belong at fancy criminal gatherings where everyone has better jewelry than me.”
