Page 62 of Knot Your Karma
“I don’t want to go,” I whisper, clutching Reed’s shirt tighter around myself. “What if moving makes it worse? What if I can’t—what if something goes wrong?”
“Nothing’s going wrong,” Reed soothes, but he’s already gathering my scattered clothes, his movements efficientdespite the obvious effect my scent is having on him. “We’re going to take care of you, but Adrian’s right—your bedroom will be better than the shop floor.”
“Can you walk?” Declan asks, his protective instincts clearly warring with the need to get me somewhere safe and private.
I try to stand, but my legs are unsteady, and the movement sends another wave of heat through my system that makes me gasp. “I don’t think—everything feels too intense when I move?—”
“I’ve got you,” Adrian says simply, scooping me up like I weigh nothing, Reed’s shirt and my grandmother’s quilt wrapped around me like the world’s most inadequate armor.
And I believe him.
Karma
The momentwe get inside my house, pre-heat decides to graduate into full-blown heat, because apparently my biology has zero interest in easing into things like a normal person’s would.
I’m burning up from the inside out, which is ridiculous because it’s October and I can literally see my breath, but apparently heat doesn’t consult the weather forecast before staging a hostile takeover of your thermostat.
When I press my palm to my chest, it burns fever-hot, heartbeat thundering so hard I can feel it in my teeth. I have to move, have to organize, have to make everything right before I lose myself completely to whatever’s building inside me like a storm I can’t outrun.
“Okay, so this is going to sound completely insane, but I require blankets—like all the blankets—and also the soft things, and the bedroom has to be flawless before I turn into one of those omegas who can only communicate through frantic whimpering and really specific organizational demands that probably don’t make sense to anyone but me?—”
I’m already pulling cushions off my grandmother’santique sofa, my fingers trembling so badly I nearly drop half of them. My vintage sweater clings to damp skin, fabric suddenly unbearable against nerve endings that feel raw and exposed. I’m moving too fast, nearly tripping over my own feet in the rush to make everything right. The ache builds like wildfire under my skin, making rational thought slip away piece by piece.
“Karma,” Reed says, catching my elbow when I stumble, and the contact sends electricity straight up my arm. “Talk to me. What’s the priority list here?”
“Everything!” I sob, because I can’t slow down enough to organize thoughts properly. “Bedroom blankets, water, I don’t know what else but I know there’s more, and I require it ready before I completely lose the ability to think in complete sentences and just start making those embarrassing omega noises that romance novels never adequately prepare you for—oh God, I’m already making them, aren’t I?”
My knees buckle without warning, and I catch myself against the banister, fingertips digging into polished wood. The hallway tilts sideways for three heartbeats before snapping back into focus. Between my thighs, slick starts to gather, and the sensation makes me whimper with want I can’t control.
They move immediately—Reed heading toward the kitchen with determined efficiency, Adrian taking the stairs two at a time, Declan staying with me as I continue my frantic preparations with movements that feel less coordinated with each passing moment.
“The bedroom,” I pant, abandoning the living room nest halfway through. “Private, safe—I want all of you there when this completely takes over and I lose whatever dignity I have left.”
I’m already heading upstairs with an armload of cushions, which is probably not the most dignified way to start a heatcycle, but my legs are shaking so badly I’m just grateful I haven’t face-planted into my grandmother’s antique banister.
The afternoon light streaming through lace curtains feels too harsh, too exposing. I yank down the vintage roller shades with trembling palms, plunging the room into golden dimness that finally feels right.
Adrian shows up carrying what looks like my entire linen closet, which would normally send me into organizational panic mode, but apparently heat makes you prioritize nest-building over proper folding techniques.
The maritime quilt has to go in the exact center—not close, exact—with the compass rose pattern pointing toward the door so I can see anyone approaching. My grandmother’s wedding quilt layers perpendicular, creating a cross pattern that feels essential in ways I can’t explain.
“This arrangement makes sense,” Adrian says, helping position pillows where my urgent gestures indicate. When he moves one pillow two inches right, my whole body tenses until he shifts it back. “Better?”
“Ideal, yes, but also—something’s wrong, it’s happening too fast, like my body just decided to skip the entire warm-up phase and jump straight to the part where I become a frantic mess who can’t function without?—”
I break off, pressing both palms to my sternum because my heart is hammering so hard it might crack my ribs.
“Oh fuck, this is really happening, isn’t it?”
The manageable restlessness I’ve been dealing with suddenly escalates into full heat, and it hits like a freight train. My scent glands burn along my neck and wrists. The room tilts again, and this time it doesn’t stop—everything spinning as fire floods my system.
Wetness slides down my inner thighs—warm trails that cool in the October air and make me shiver. My underwear is already soaked through, slick mixing with arousal until Ismell like claiming and yearning and forever all wrapped together in a scent that makes my own mouth water.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I gasp, gripping the bedpost as my legs nearly give out. “It’s starting—real heat, not just the preview anymore—and I crave things I don’t even have words for because apparently heat makes you lose vocabulary along with any sense of appropriate social boundaries?—”
I can’t even finish the sentence because hunger is clawing at my insides like a living thing, making me ache in places I didn’t know could ache, hollow and yearning and empty in ways that make tears spring to my eyes.
Declan’s rain-soaked wood floods in first, sharp and commanding, and the scent hits me like a drug—making my mouth water and my thighs clench and recognition flood my chest for the first time in months.
