Page 117 of Knot Your Karma
“Any luck with the provenance mystery?” Sterling asks from my office doorway.
“Better than luck. This isn’t just authentic—it’s historically significant.” I point to the tiny maker’s mark I’ve just uncovered. “J. Whitman, Boston, 1847. He only made twelve chronometers during his entire career.”
Sterling’s eyes light up with collector’s excitement, which is basically his version of Christmas morning. “Remarkable. The insurance company will be very interested.”
“Very interested and very relieved. This piece is worth three times what they thought.” I stretch, contentment warming my chest in ways that would sound cheesy if I triedto explain them out loud. “Though I have to say, authenticating priceless artifacts in fuzzy slippers is definitely my preferred work environment.”
“Speaking of work environment, I have news. The Maritime Heritage Foundation wants to establish a new authentication fellowship—full funding for research, international travel, access to private collections worldwide.” His smile suggests he’s been sitting on this information for a while. “I recommended you as the inaugural fellow.”
I probably smell like someone just told me I won the lottery, which is basically what happened. The Maritime Heritage Foundation fellowship is career-changing—the kind of opportunity I’ve only dreamed about while eating ramen and wondering if I could afford both rent and groceries.
“Sterling, that’s incredible, but?—”
“Think of it as expanding your platform, not changing it. Plus, the fellowship includes travel funding for essential support personnel.” His eyes twinkle with mischief. “Pack can come with you for research expeditions.”
Before I can process the implications of traveling the world to examine priceless artifacts with my pack in tow, footsteps announce Adrian’s arrival, along with the scent of sandalwood and sawdust from his workshop downstairs.
“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, nodding to Sterling. “Dec wanted me to let you know dinner’s ready.”
“Perfect timing,” Sterling says, gathering his coat. “I should head home anyway. Lilli’s making lasagna tonight.”
The fact that Sterling and my mom are domestic enough to have dinner plans still makes my brain do happy little backflips.
After he leaves, I lean into Adrian’s arms, still processing. “Sterling recommended me for a fellowship that could change everything. International research, travel, working with pieces most people only see in textbooks.”
“That’s incredible. You deserve every bit of recognitioncoming your way.” His voice carries quiet pride that makes my chest feel too small. “How do you feel about the travel requirements?”
“Excited. Nervous. Grateful that I have pack who can come with me instead of having to choose between love and career like some kind of tragic romance novel heroine.” I study his expression. “You’d really be okay with that? Dropping everything to travel for my work?”
“Karma.” Adrian’s gray eyes are serious and warm in that way that makes my omega hindbrain purr with satisfaction. “Six months ago, you changed our lives by accepting a job in Boston. We rearranged everything because your dreams matter to us. You think we’d feel differently about supporting your career growth?”
We settle into our usual evening routine—dinner, conversation about how my life keeps getting weirdly better, and the house gradually filling with enough pack scent to make visiting omegas jealous. By nine o’clock, we’re arranged on the couch in a comfortable pile that would look ridiculous to outsiders but feels like the most natural thing in the world.
“Perfect day,” I murmur against Declan’s shoulder.
“Perfect life,” Reed corrects.
“Perfect pack,” Adrian adds quietly.
The phone rings.
I consider ignoring it—we’re comfortable, content, and nothing could be that urgent. But something about the persistent ringing makes my omega instincts prickle with unease, which is probably my body’s way of telling me this isn’t going to be a telemarketer trying to sell me extended warranties.
Unknown number.
“Probably spam,” Reed observes.
But I answer anyway, because apparently I can’t leave well enough alone. “Hello?”
Breathing. Soft, shaky breathing, like someone is gathering courage to speak or trying not to cry.
“Hello?” I repeat.
More breathing, and then a voice I’d recognize anywhere, small and scared and nothing like the confident woman who’s been running my old shop.
“Karma.” Destiny’s voice breaks on my name. “I’m in trouble.”
The words hit like cold water. My scent probably just broadcastsomething’s very wrongto the entire neighborhood, and all three of them go from relaxed pack to full alert mode so fast it’s like watching a nature documentary about protective instincts.
