Page 70 of Knot Your Karma
The casual way he says it—like being needed isn’t burden but privilege—tightens my throat with unnamed emotion.
By the time we make it downstairs, my kitchen smells like heaven, which is suspicious because I definitely can’t cook like this and Reed wasn’t supposed to be this competent at domestic goddess activities.
Sunlight streams through lace curtains, catching steam rising from golden pancakes. Reed stands at the stove flipping what appears to be a slightly lopsided anchor, hair mussed, wearing an apron declaringKiss the Cookin faded letters. A flour handprint decorates his hip where he’s absently wiped his palm.
Adrian’s sitting at my grandmother’s table with coffee and what looks like a detailed organizational chart, because apparently claiming your omega means immediately reorganizing her entire life, which should annoy me but mostly makes me want to purr. Behind him, my spice rack displays tiny jars arranged by color—deep reds flowing to warm oranges to pale yellows like seasoning sunset.
“Morning, gorgeous.” Reed doesn’t turn around, but a smile threads through his voice mixed with careful attention suggesting he’s been listening for footsteps. “Scale of one tojust discovered what three alphas accomplish when they coordinate,how are we feeling?”
“Solidly atthoroughly satisfied omega who’s regained most cognitive functions but still gets distracted by how good everyone smells.” I settle beside Adrian.
“Perfect.” Reed slides a plate in front of me—anchor-shaped pancake with geometrically precise syrup pools, properly crisped bacon, eggs that belong in food magazines instead of on everyday china. “Because we have pack logisticsto discuss.”
Heat floods my face as I realize I’ve been purring—low, satisfied rumble I haven’t noticed until now. “I’m not—that’s not—omegas don’t just purr randomly like satisfied house cats?—”
“You absolutely do.” Adrian’s construction-callused fingers find mine on the table, completely engulfing my hand. “Perfect response.”
“Please tell me this doesn’t involve criminals or black market dealings or people threatening my livelihood for recreational purposes.”
“Nothing threatening.” Adrian’s thumb finds my pulse point where it still hammers faster than normal. His organizational chart, I realize, isn’t construction-related—timeline with neat boxes and arrows, dates marked in precise block letters. “Pack structure. Foundation work.”
“Foundation work?”
Reed settles across from me with his own plate. “We’ve been considering the compass situation. Specifically, what Blake’s definition of ‘family heirloom’ actually means versus what it could mean.”
I pause with fork halfway to mouth, anxiety spiking despite the peaceful atmosphere. “What about it?”
Declan takes the chair to my right, completing the circle, and suddenly I am surrounded by pack scent and attention in ways that warm my chest even as worry crawls up my throat.
“Been thinking maybe the compass doesn’t need to go to Blake’s ceremony.” He watches my face with those blue eyes that miss nothing.
Fork clatters to my plate as I try to process this possibility. “What do you mean?”
“Blake doesn’t deserve it.” His hands curl into fists against weathered wood, knuckles going white. “Lostthe right to Mitchell traditions when he decided to treat relationships like spreadsheet comparisons.”
“But it’s your family’s?—”
“It’s a family heirloom.” Reed’s voice remains steady despite the barely leashed protective fury emanating from him. “Question is which family gets to define what that means. Last I checked, performance metrics on omegas doesn’t exactly scream ‘family values.’”
Oh. Oh, they want to use the compass for our bonding ceremony, which makes my brain short-circuit because that’s the most beautiful kind of revenge I’ve ever heard of.
My coffee mug slips in nerveless fingers, and Declan catches it before impact, reflexes apparently designed for omega-related emergencies.
“You’re talking about us.” The words barely escape.
“We’re talking about us.” Adrian’s thumb finds my pulse where it hammers like trapped birds. Storm-gray eyes hold mine with intensity that constricts my chest. “If that’s something you’d want. When you’re ready to trust it.”
Words won’t come, and my throat closes up, and now I’m crying which is absolutely ridiculous because I’m supposed to be a functional adult who can handle good news without turning into a sobbing mess, but apparently my emotional regulation skills need work.
“A bonding ceremony.” The words feel foreign and exactly right on my tongue. My fingers trace the covered bite mark, and warmth spreads from the touch like recognition. “Our bonding ceremony.”
“With a compass representing finding true north.” Reed’s diplomatic mask slips to show genuine emotion—hope and want and something suspiciously like love. “Finding home. The irony is beautiful—Blake’s biggest mistake becoming our greatest blessing.”
“Blake’s compass becoming our compass.” I press both palms to my chest because my heart hammers hard enough tocrack ribs. “The thing I stole from anger becoming the thing that celebrates everything good we’ve built.”
“Not revenge.” Declan’s voice roughens. “Redemption. The compass going where it belongs—with people who understand what family actually means.”
Emotion crashes through me so big it doesn’t fit in my chest, which sounds like a medical impossibility but heat apparently rewires your entire emotional processing system in ways that would concern a therapist.
