Page 37 of Knot Your Karma
“Blake can go to hell.” The words come out flat as a carpenter’s level. “He had something real and traded it for a fucking Excel file. His loss.”
“So we show her what she should have had.” Declan’s voice hardens with determination. “Patience. Honesty. Actually being worth her time.”
“And if she gives us a chance?” Reed asks.
“Then we don’t mess it up like he did.” I settle backagainst the wall. “Tomorrow, we start the careful work of showing her exactly what that looks like.”
Reed’s smile finally returns, warm as summer morning. “She’s going to be so surprised when she realizes she’s already found her pack.”
“The good kind of surprised,” I add, and for the first time all evening, the cramped room feels full of possibility instead of fury.
Karma
Adrian’s coffeemug sits on my kitchen counter like evidence of a crime I didn’t know I was committing, which honestly sums up my entire life right now.
Sandalwood and pine cling to the kitchen air like the world’s most dangerous aromatherapy session, threading through my vanilla candles and old wood until I catch myself actually purring like some kind of satisfied cat, which is definitely not helping myI’m a professional antique dealerimage.
The scent combination feels dangerously like home—like belonging—and that’s exactly the problem.
Declan’s business card lies next to Reed’s forgotten pen, while Adrian’s mug still holds traces of warmth and that grounding scent. Evidence of three different men scattered across my kitchen like breadcrumbs leading straight to emotional disaster.
“Okay, that’s it,” I announce to the empty kitchen, my voice echoing off Grandmother’s restored cabinets. “This situation officially requires wine. Emergency wine. The kind that justifies drinking directly from the bottle while having a complete emotional breakdown.”
I pull my grandmother’s vintage Bordeaux from the rack—the good stuff I’ve been saving for a special occasion. Well, discovering you’re apparently compatible with an entire pack while actively deceiving them about grand theft compass definitely qualifies as special. Horrible, but special.
The cork stares back at me smugly.
I don’t have a corkscrew.
“Seriously?” I ask the bottle, holding it up to the light like it might reveal hidden opening mechanisms. “Tonight? You’re going to make me work for this tonight?”
My hands shake as I yank open kitchen drawers, searching through the chaos of utensils my grandmother collected over forty years. Wooden spoons, cake servers, that weird thing that’s either for olives or torture—everything except the one tool I need to survive this emotional crisis.
I attack the cork with a butter knife, but it crumbles under pressure—chunks breaking off and floating in dark wine like tiny pieces of my self-control.
Cork confetti scatters across my counter, mocking my inability to handle basic adult tasks.
“Come on,” I mutter, switching to a dinner fork that bends against the stubborn cork. “I have been emotionally devastated twice today. I had a life-changing kiss by one alpha, an almost-kiss with a beta, and developed feelings for another alpha who can pick locks and makes coffee like it’s perfectly normal behavior. The least you can do is open so I can drink my feelings about it.”
The fork slips, nearly taking off my palm in the process.
I grab a screwdriver from the junk drawer and start working it into what’s left of the stubborn cork. This is what my life has come to—performing wine bottle surgery with hardware tools while three men who could be perfect for me are probably discussing the family heirloom I stole.
The screwdriver gets stuck halfway through the resistant cork.
“Oh, come ON!” I shout at the bottle like it’s personally responsible for every bad decision I’ve made since meeting Declan. “What did I ever do to you? I have treated you with nothing but respect!”
I’m yanking on the screwdriver with both hands, my knuckles white from gripping the handle, when my phone rings. I lunge for it without letting go of the bottle, managing to answer while still wrestling with my cork situation.
“Hello?” I gasp, slightly out of breath from wine combat.
Destiny’s voice sharpens immediately. “Okay, what’s wrong? And don’t tell me nothing, because you sound like you’re either having a medical emergency or attempting home improvement that’s going catastrophically wrong.”
“I’m fine!” I insist, giving the screwdriver another violent twist. The cork moves approximately half a millimeter. “I’m having a perfectly normal evening doing perfectly normal wine accessibility activities?—”
THUNK.
The screwdriver finally breaks free, but without the cork. I now have a wine bottle with a screwdriver-sized hole and a cork that’s definitely not coming out intact.
