Page 69 of Knot Your Karma
“That’s how Adrian processes giving someone a claiming bite.” Something shifts in Declan’s expression. “Everything is permanent. Reed says he’s been at it since dawn, muttering about optimal storage and accessibility while reorganizing your pantry like he’s defusing ordnance.”
My thumb finds the bite mark again, pressing until I have to swallow a whimper. The thought of Adrian claiming my kitchen with the same thoroughness he claimed my body pools heat low in my belly despite lingering soreness.
There is just something so hot about a big burly guy cleaning.
“And Reed?”
“Making nautical pancakes while providing detailed commentary on syrup aerodynamics.” His expression suggests this is both normal and mildly concerning. “Think he’s nervous about whether you regret what happened.”
Cedar sharpens as his hand stills on my ankle, his thumb pausing mid-circle. The careful way he watches me suggests he’s prepared for rejection.
Which he won’t get.
“We all are,” he admits, voice rougher than usual. “Whether we moved too fast. Whether you regret letting usclaim you. Whether pack bond is what you actually want or just what heat convinced you that you wanted.”
The vulnerability in those words—like he’s braced for me to say this was all a mistake—makes my chest clench tight enough to steal my breath.
“Declan.” I set down coffee and reach for his hand, lacing our fingers together. When I meet his eyes, something shifts—blue darkening. “Do I regret it? No. Should I probably regret it? Maybe. Am I overthinking whether I should regret not regretting it? Absolutely. But my heat might have accelerated the timeline—it didn’t create feelings that weren’t already there.”
His grip tightens, his thumb finding my pulse where it hammers against delicate skin. “Hoped so. But hope and certainty are different foundations.”
“Then let me give you certainty.” The words still him completely. His free hand finds my nape, thumb pressing Adrian’s bite mark with possession that arches me toward him unconsciously. “I choose this. Choose you, all of you, pack bond and everything that comes with it. Not because biology made me, but because you’re the first people who’ve ever acted like I might actually be worth choosing back.”
“Good.” The word rumbles through his chest. “Because we’re not going anywhere.”
“Even when I’m not in heat and probably much more neurotic about reasonable concerns like bathroom scheduling and whether my Victorian plumbing can handle three additional people’s daily showers without staging a revolt requiring professional intervention?”
“Especially then.”
We sit there in comfortable quiet, his thumb tracing patterns against my pulse while my brain tries to process what pack bond actually means in terms of bathroom schedules and whether my Victorian plumbing can handle three additional showers.
Three additional people in my space, my decisions, my life.
Three people to worry about, care for, consider when making plans.
Three people who’ll see me at absolute worst—not just heat-driven desperation, but Tuesday morning grumpiness and bill-paying anxiety and how I talk to antique compasses when I think no one is listening.
“I should get up,” I yawn, my jaw cracking in the process. “Head to the shop.”
“Reality can wait.” Declan pauses choosing his words carefully. “You’re priority one right now.”
“But the shop?—”
“Handled. We made sure.” The command settles in my bones like truth. “Today is about proper recovery. Get dressed”
I snort because he makes it sound easier than it likely is.
I’m right, of course. Getting dressed takes longer because my legs still shake and Declan hovers like I might collapse without warning. Sweet, but also turns putting on underwear into a performance about omega recovery and alpha protective instincts.
“I can dress myself,” I tell him when he steadies my elbow stepping into jeans that feel too snug around still-sensitive thighs.
“I know you can. Doesn’t mean I’m not making sure you don’t face-plant doing it.”
His hand doesn’t leave my elbow—warm, steady anchor as I pull on yesterday’s sweater. The cashmere smells like pack now instead of just me.
“What if I never stop being shaky? Like, what if this is my life now—needing alpha assistance for basic functions like stair navigation or doorknob operation? What if I’ve become one of those omegas who’s basically useless without constantsupervision, which sounds romantic in theory but would make grocery shopping a logistical nightmare?—”
“Then we handle it.” He cuts through my spiral. “Not exactly hardship, keeping you steady.”
