Page 43 of Knot Your Karma
“Good,” Adrian says, his voice carrying that quiet intensity that makes my knees slightly weak. “Because this might get complicated fast.”
Declan pulls out his phone and spreads papers across my coffee table, each document positioned for maximum efficiency. “Here’s what we know. Sterling Ashworth, sixty-two, owns a shipping fortune and collects maritime antiques as a hobby. Very exclusive, very private, very rich.”
“How rich are we talking?” I ask, settling into Grandmother’s chair and immediately catching more of their combined scents.
“Rich enough that he doesn’t need to sell anything, ever,” Reed says, his fingers drumming against his knee in nervous rhythm despite his casual tone. “Which makes convincing him... diplomatically challenging. Like negotiating with someone who could buy Rhode Island as a weekend hobby.”
“What kind of collection does he have?” I ask, my professional instincts overriding hangover fog.
“According to Sage, everything from ship chronometers to full-scale figureheads,” Declan says, running his handthrough his hair in that gesture that means he’s stressed but trying to control it. Boston bleeds through his careful control when he adds, “The kind of collection that belongs in a museum but lives in some rich bastard’s private mansion instead.”
My scent must be broadcasting anxiety because all three men immediately shift their attention to me, protective energy filling the room like storm pressure.
“And he hosts these events regularly?”
“Private sales events,” Adrian corrects, moving to my front window with hands behind his back, scanning the street like he’s calculating sight lines and escape routes. He’s already working security for an event that hasn’t started yet. “Invitation only. Very discreet clientele.”
“The kind of discreet that doesn’t ask questions about how things found their way to market,” I realize, my general knowledge of maritime antique networks filling in implications I don’t want to understand.
“Exactly,” Declan says, his jaw working like he’s chewing on something bitter. His hands curl into fists, then deliberately uncurl. “Rich bastard thinks he can just—” He stops, runs both hands through his hair. “Sorry. This isn’t about my feelings. This is about getting our family’s compass back.”
“What’s the plan?” I ask, though I’m increasingly certain I don’t want to know.
“Simple,” Reed says, pulling out his phone with fingers already moving across the screen. “I research the guest list, see who’s connected to whom, find the conversation bridges and pressure points.” He glances up with a grin that suggests it’s anything but simple. “We go in, mingle with rich maritime collectors like we belong there, identify who has influence with Blackwater, and convince him that holding onto our family compass might not be worth the potential... complications.”
“What kind of complications?”
“The kind where his collection gets more attention than he’d prefer,” Declan says carefully, but his voice carries an edge that suggests the complications won’t be gentle or particularly legal.
Oh God. They’re planning to threaten exposure of his entire operation to get the compass back. At an event full of people who definitely don’t want their business exposed. People who solve problems by making them disappear permanently.
“That sounds...” I search for words that won’t sound completely terrified.
“Dangerous,” Adrian finishes, his storm-gray eyes holding mine with laser focus. “Which is why you stay close to me. All night.”
The way he says it—not asking permission, just stating fact—makes something deep in my hindbrain purr with satisfaction.
“I can handle myself,” I say automatically, because Blake taught me that needing protection makes you weak.
“I know you can,” Adrian replies, leaning forward with that controlled intensity that makes the air feel charged. “But you’re not handling yourself alone tonight.”
Reed’s pen stops its nervous drumming against his knee. He leans back in Grandmother’s chair, and his diplomatic smile becomes genuine for the first time all evening.
“Actually,” I say, my professional instincts overriding my panic, “before we plan any threatening, we need to understand how these events actually work.”
All three men lean forward slightly, and the quality of their attention shifts from planning mode to listening mode.
“These aren’t just rich collectors playing with expensive toys,” I continue, finding my footing on familiar professional ground. “They’re people who’ve built their reputations on discretion and exclusive access. Going in making threats is like showing up to a wine tasting and demandingbeer. You’ll get thrown out before you can accomplish anything.”
My voice comes out steady, sure. My hands stop their nervous fidgeting with my bracelet. For the first time since those seventeen text messages, I’m not measuring my words or second-guessing my expertise.
The moment I finish talking, something in the room shifts. Declan’s rigid posture softens into something more collaborative. Reed’s nervous energy focuses into sharp attention. Adrian’s protective stance becomes approving rather than defensive. They’re not just including me in their plans—they’re following my lead.
For the first time since Blake, I’m not performing expertise to earn respect—I’m offering it because they value what I know.
“What do you suggest?” Declan asks, and he immediately closes his research folder. Reed puts away his phone. Adrian turns from the window to face me fully.
Three successful, competent men waiting for me to tell them what to do.
