Page 46 of Knot Your Karma
My scent must be broadcasting panic because Adrian immediately tenses, moving without speaking to position himself between me and Webb.
Webb’s eyes flick to Adrian, calculating whether to pushor retreat. Tension builds between them—alpha protective instincts meeting alpha predatory interest, with me caught in the middle like prey being fought over.
“Of course,” Webb says finally, but his smile turns cold and sharp. “Enjoy the rest of the evening, Karma. I’m sure we’ll be seeing each other again soon.”
He melts back into the crowd, but I feel him watching, his attention like weight between my shoulder blades. My hands shake as adrenaline crashes through me.
“We find Declan and Reed,” Adrian says, his hand moving to my back in clear claiming behavior. “Now.”
We locate them quickly—Reed charming dealers near the bar while his eyes track our approach with immediate concern, Declan examining auction pieces until he spots Adrian’s sharp protective energy and shifts into alert mode.
“Problem?” Declan asks, moving closer with controlled alpha intensity that means he’s prepared for violence.
“Someone either recognized Karma or thinks he does,” Adrian says, voice carrying careful control overprotective fury. “Either way, trouble.”
“What kind of trouble?” Reed asks, immediately shifting into crisis mode.
“The kind that asks uncomfortable questions about how young omegas end up with expensive maritime pieces,” I say, voice barely steady.
All three go very still, processing implications—that my connection to this world might be more complicated than they realized, that bringing me here might have exposed me to exactly the danger they were trying to avoid.
“Fuck this,” Declan says immediately, Boston bleeding through protective fury. “We leave. Now.”
“Wait.” Every instinct screams to run, but we haven’t accomplished anything. “We haven’t talked to Blackwater yet. If we leave now, we might not get another chance.”
“If we stay, you might get exposed to worse than missedopportunities,” Adrian says, voice carrying absolute protective authority.
Before we can decide, Sterling Ashworth approaches our group.
Up close, he’s even more imposing—decades of having the best of everything radiating from expensive suit, precision-styled hair, calculated movements designed for maximum impact.
“I don’t believe we’ve met,” he says, extending his hand to Declan with practiced charm, smile perfect and completely empty. “Sterling Ashworth.”
“Declan Mitchell.” I watch Declan force himself into professional mode. “These are my business partners, Reed Santos and Adrian Blackwood. And our maritime consultant, Karma Rose.”
“Ms. Rose.” Blackwater takes my hand with old-fashioned courtesy, grip firm but not aggressive, though his eyes assess with sharp intelligence. “I understand you’re an expert in maritime antiques.”
“I try to be.” My voice comes out steady despite adrenaline still coursing through my system.
“Excellent. I’m always interested in meeting people who truly understand the history behind pieces.” His attention shifts back to Declan, something calculating entering his expression that makes my stomach clench. “Mitchell, you said? Are you by chance related to the Boston Mitchells? Maritime family, very old shipping connections?”
Declan’s surprise barely stays contained. “You know my family?”
“I make it my business to know maritime families. Your ancestors had quite a reputation for quality craftsmanship—compasses, chronometers, navigational instruments.” Blackwater’s smile widens. “I believe I may have a piece or two with Mitchell provenance in my collection.”
My heart stops like someone cut the power, then kicksback to life hammering so hard my pulse must be visible through my skin. He’s talking about the compass. He knows exactly where it came from and how it connects to Declan’s family.
“Really?” Declan asks, voice carefully controlled despite tension radiating from his posture, Boston accent sharpening with barely contained emotion. “I’d be very interested to know more.”
“Perhaps we could arrange a private viewing sometime. I’m always happy to share family history with descendants.” Blackwater’s smile stays pleasant, but something calculating lurks behind it, like a cat playing with mice. “Though I should mention, I recently acquired a particularly beautiful Mitchell family compass. Exquisite piece, obviously well-loved, with the most touching inscription about finding true north and coming home.”
Each word hits like a physical blow, precisely aimed for maximum impact. He’s describing the compass perfectly, deliberately. He knows exactly who Declan is and why we’re here.
“That sounds like a piece my family’s been looking for,” Declan says carefully, hands curling into fists despite his controlled tone. “It went missing some time ago.”
“How unfortunate. Family pieces should stay with families, don’t you think?” Blackwater’s tone stays perfectly reasonable, but his eyes sharpen with intelligence and possible amusement. “Though of course, when pieces come to me through proper channels, with appropriate documentation, I assume they’re legally available for purchase.”
Proper channels. Appropriate documentation. He’s telling us he bought it legitimately and has no obligation to return it.
