Page 44 of Knot Your Karma
My spine straightens automatically.
“We go in as potential buyers. New money looking to start a maritime collection, interested in learning from established collectors like Blackwater. We make connections, build trust, and then casually mention that we’re looking for a specific piece that might be similar to something in his collection.”
“And if he’s not interested in selling?”
“Then we find out who he trusts, who he listens to, who might be able to influence his decisions. These collectors love showing off their knowledge and their connections. If we approach it right, they’ll tell us everything we need to know without realizing they’re doing it.”
“See?” Reed says, tension finally easing from his shoulders as understanding dawns across his face. “This is why we need you. We were planning to go in like righteous alphaswith a family mission and possibly some light intimidation. You’re planning to go in like someone who actually understands the territory and how these people think.”
“Maritime antiques are my world,” I say, and my voice carries confidence I didn’t know I still had. “Even when that world gets... morally complicated.”
“She stays with me,” Adrian says, his voice going quiet, controlled, final. His hands clasp behind his back—that stance that means the decision is made and not up for discussion.
Something low in my belly flutters, and I have to look away before anyone notices I’m pressing my thighs together.
“All right,” Declan says, gathering the papers with efficient movements. “We follow Karma’s lead. She knows this territory better than any of us.”
“Just remember,” I add, standing and smoothing my vintage dress, “these people can smell desperation and amateur hour from across a room. We need to be interested but not desperate, knowledgeable but not threatening, rich enough to belong but not so rich we’re competition.”
“Diplomatic wealth,” Reed says, straightening his blazer with theatrical precision. “Think family restaurant success story, not Pablo Escobar yacht party. Rich enough they assume we belong, boring enough they don’t Google us or ask uncomfortable questions about our backgrounds.”
“And whatever happens,” Adrian says, standing and moving closer to me, his presence immediately making the space feel more secure, “you don’t move without me knowing where you are. Not in there.”
Every instinct I have wants to trust these men, to let them handle the danger while I contribute my expertise. But Blake taught me that trusting alphas with my safety is how you get destroyed. The conflict makes my hands want to shake no matter how much their scents comfort me.
“Ready?” Declan asks, checking his watch with the precisionof someone who’s calculated travel time down to the minute.
“Ready,” I say, grabbing my purse and the small clutch that contains business cards I pray I won’t need to use tonight.
Adrian’s palm finds the small of my back, warm through vintage navy silk. His thumb traces one small circle—there, gone. The contact sends electricity straight through the vintage silk, and some omega instinct I thought Blake had destroyed recognizes protection without possession.
“Showtime,” he murmurs against my ear, his voice steady as bedrock. “Remember—you belong with us.”
Something in my hindbrain settles at his certainty. Not because he’s telling me what to do, but because he believes I can do it.
Karma
The moment we walk inside,I realize this is definitely not your average gallery opening.
Conversations happen in the spaces between words—pauses that last too long, voices that drop when strangers approach, laughter that doesn’t reach eyes like everyone’s performingcasual art appreciationwhile conducting shady business deals.
This isn’t art appreciation. This is commerce wrapped in culture, the kind of business that happens in handshake agreements that never see paperwork and probably end with people mysteriously disappearing if they ask too many questions.
The air tastes like expensive cologne layered over aged wood and brass polish, with wine and carefully managed tension threading underneath. My omega senses pick up predator and prey dynamics immediately—who’s hunting, who’s hiding, who’s pretending to be something they’re not.
“There,” I whisper, nodding toward a distinguished man in his sixties holding court near ship chronometers. “That has to be Sterling Ashworth.”
Silver hair styled with expensive precision, suit tailored tohis exact measurements, the kind of confident posture that comes from never doubting your right to the best of everything. He’s surrounded by people whose body language screamsplease notice mewhile their eyes calculate advantage.
“Son of a bitch,” Declan mutters under his breath, jaw clenching, Boston sharpening his consonants.
“Easy there, Captain America,” Reed says, his hand briefly touching Declan’s arm. “We’re charming potential buyers, not avenging angels.”
“How do we approach him?” Declan’s jaw works like he’s chewing glass.
“We don’t. Not directly.” I scan the room, cataloguing players with the same instinct I use for estate sales. “We need to understand the ecosystem first.”
“I’ll work the crowd,” Reed says, shoulders relaxing as he shifts into networking mode. “See who’s willing to share interesting gossip about authentication standards and questionable provenance.”
