Page 47 of Knot Your Karma
“Of course,” Reed says smoothly, stepping into diplomatic mode with practiced ease. “We’re not questioning anything. I’m sure your paperwork is absolutely pristine. We’re just three guys hoping family sentiment beats collector pride, youknow? These old maritime families get pretty sentimental about their heirlooms.”
“An admirable hope. But you understand, I’m quite attached to the piece myself. It’s become a centerpiece of my collection.”
“Mr. Blackwater, I’m not much for dancing around things,” Declan says. “That compass belonged to my great-great-grandfather. We’d like it back, and we’re prepared to pay whatever it takes.”
“Mr. Mitchell, payment assumes I’m interested in selling. Which I’m not.” Blackwater’s smile becomes more businesslike, sharp around the edges. “However, I’m always interested in... interesting trades. Perhaps if you had something equally significant to offer...”
“What kind of something?” I ask before I can stop myself.
Blackwater’s attention turns to me, cataloguing every detail of my appearance, voice, scent. The way he looks at me—like he’s trying to solve a puzzle—makes my skin crawl. This is how predators study prey. How collectors evaluate acquisitions.
“Well, Ms. Rose, given your expertise, I’m sure you understand that maritime collections are built through relationships—connections, insider knowledge. Sometimes the most valuable thing someone can offer isn’t money—it’s information.”
Information. He wants details about how pieces move through markets, about other collectors, about the network that brought him the compass in the first place.
Information that could expose Sage, and me, and everyone connected to how that compass really changed hands.
“What kind of information?” Adrian asks, and there’s subtle warning in his quiet voice that makes Blackwater’s smile widen.
“Oh, nothing untoward. Simply the professional insights that help collectors stay informed about market opportunities.”Blackwater’s tone stays perfectly innocent, but threat rings clear. “For instance, Ms. Rose, I’m sure someone with your expertise has fascinating stories about how family pieces find their way to market. The human drama behind transactions.”
He’s asking me to expose the very network I’m hiding from. To tell him about emotional omegas selling family heirlooms out of spite, about dealers who don’t ask questions, about the whole ugly chain that brought the compass to his collection.
“I’m sure Ms. Rose’s professional discretion is exactly what makes her so valuable to her clients,” Adrian says, and his voice has gone deadly quiet.
Blackwater’s smile widens like he’s pleased to have provoked a reaction. “Of course. Professional discretion is everything in this business. Which is why I’m sure you understand that I can’t simply hand over collection pieces based on family sentiment alone.”
“Perhaps we could continue this conversation at a later date,” Reed suggests. “When we’ve had time to consider your generous offer.”
“Of course. Though I should mention that my interest in expanding my collection tends to be... seasonal. Opportunities that aren’t pursued promptly often disappear entirely.”
Threat. Subtle, polite, wrapped in reasonable business language, but definitely a threat. Move fast or lose the chance entirely.
“We understand,” Declan says, voice tight, jaw working with the effort of politeness. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Blackwater.”
“My pleasure. Enjoy the rest of the evening. And Ms. Rose?” He turns to me one final time, expression pleasant but eyes cold. “Do be careful. Maritime antiques can be such a small world. One wrong association, one misunderstanding about provenance, and suddenly doors that used to be openbecome permanently closed. Such a shame when promising careers end over... complications.”
Another threat, this one directed specifically at me with the kind of polite menace that would make a mafia don proud, wrapped in concern but sharp as a blade dipped in expensive cologne and passive-aggressive business speak.
We make polite goodbyes and move toward the exit, but I feel eyes tracking our movement like spotlights. Marcus Webb still watches from across the room, predatory focus making my skin crawl. Blackwater is undoubtedly having us followed. God knows who else might recognize me or connect me to Sage’s network.
“Walk normally,” Adrian says quietly, his hand finding my elbow with firm pressure. “Don’t look back, don’t rush, just get to the truck.”
We make it outside without incident, but the moment we’re in the truck, all suppressed adrenaline crashes through my system. My hands shake, my pulse hammers loud enough to drown out traffic, and I can barely catch my breath.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” Declan says from the driver’s seat, starting the engine with sharp, controlled movements, Boston accent thick with protective fury. “That was...”
“Terrifying,” Reed finishes, running hands through his hair, diplomatic composure finally cracking. “That was absolutely terrifying. I’ve never felt like such an amateur in my entire life.”
“You were perfect,” I manage, voice shaky. “Both of you. If we’d gone in with threats like originally planned...”
“We’d be in jail,” Adrian says quietly, his hands framing my face, warm and steady and anchoring. “Breathe with me. In for four, hold for four, out for four.”
I try to follow his rhythm, focusing on storm-gray eyes that look silver in streetlight, letting his steady presence anchor me while my nervous system processes the danger we just escaped.
Something in my omega biology responds to his steady alpha presence—pulse slowing, breathing evening out, the panic finally starting to recede.
“Better?” he asks after a few moments, thumbs stroking across my cheekbones.
