Page 49 of Knot Your Karma
Even though I know I don’t deserve it.
Even though I know it’s all built on lies that are about to destroy everything.
Declan
The Crow’sNest smells like old wood, spilled beer, and the kind of no-bullshit atmosphere where a man can say what he’s actually thinking instead of what sounds diplomatic.
Our expensive suits mark us as outsiders among the fishermen and dock workers nursing their end-of-shift beers, but nobody stares. This is a mind-your-own-business kind of place.
“Three whiskeys,” I tell the bartender—a woman in her fifties with graying hair and the kind of expression that says she’s heard every sob story in the book and isn’t buying any of them.
She slides glasses across scarred wood without comment, amber liquid catching dim bar lighting.
Karma stole the compass.
Not some random thief. Not Blake’s mysterious poor choices. Karma Rose, the maritime antique expert who knew exactly what dealers to avoid, exactly how black-market networks operate, and exactly how to navigate a room full of criminals like she’d been doing it for years.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Reed says, loosening histie and rolling up his sleeves, diplomatic polish finally cracking after the evening’s tension. “The thing where you pace like a caged animal and emit enough cedar-scented fury to clear the room.”
“What would you prefer I do?” I lean forward over my glass, voice dropping to match his discretion. “Pretend I don’t notice that our innocent victim knew every criminal in that room by name?”
“Well, when you put it like that, it does sound slightly suspicious,” Reed says with that perfectly timed humor that makes serious situations bearable, though he pauses mid-sip of his whiskey. “Though I have to say, if Karma’s been running maritime heist operations, I’m finding that oddly attractive.”
Adrian sits across from us at the scarred wooden table, methodically working through his second whiskey, each movement deliberate and controlled. He’s been quiet since we got back from the auction.
“She knew every dealer in that room,” I continue, my Boston accent bleeding through with growing agitation. “Not just professionally. Personally. The way she positioned herself, the conversations she avoided, the people she steered us away from.”
“Because she’s an expert,” Reed points out, but his diplomatic tone sounds forced, lacking his usual smoothness.
“No.” I set my whiskey glass down harder than intended, the sound sharp against wood. “Because she’s been part of that world. Recently.”
Adrian sets down his glass and looks up, those storm-gray eyes holding mine with steady certainty. “She sold it.”
It’s not a question. He knows too.
“I think Karma Rose is the omega Blake was stringing along when the heirloom went missing.” The words taste like copper and certainty, sharp on my tongue. “I think she found out about his other women, took something precious fromhim, and sold it to someone who moves maritime pieces through private networks.”
Reed’s phone goes completely still in his hands, the device going dark. “So you’re saying our maritime expert has been lying to us this entire time about the one thing we asked for her help with.”
“I’m saying she’s been protecting herself from three men who showed up looking for something she stole from someone who destroyed her.” I lean against the wall, the building’s bones solid under my shoulders. “And honestly? Good for fucking her.”
The relief of not pretending anymore hits harder than the whiskey. We’ve all been carrying this suspicion and having it out in the open feels like finally breathing properly.
The silence stretches between us, heavy with what we’re all thinking but haven’t said out loud. Around us, the bar continues its normal rhythm—conversations and laughter and the kind of honest working-class atmosphere where dock workers solve problems with beer and better luck next time. Not three men in expensive suits discussing their omega’s justified theft of a family heirloom.
“So we all know,” Adrian says quietly, his voice cutting through the bar noise like a blade through silk.
“We all know,” I confirm, the admission settling in my chest like a weight lifting and dropping at the same time.
“And we’re all okay with it,” Reed adds, finally setting his phone aside and giving us his full attention, his body language shifting from casual to focused. “Which probably says something about our moral compasses, but honestly, I’m fine with that.”
“More than okay with it.” Something possessive flares behind my ribs, making my hands curl into fists with the need to protect what’s mine. “Blake had it coming. Hell, he’s lucky she only took one thing.”
“The question is what we do about it,” Adrian says,leaning back in his chair and scanning the bar with those storm-gray eyes, automatically checking sight lines even in casual conversation.
“We don’t do anything about it.” The decision crystallizes as I say it, solid and unshakeable. “We already chose her over Blake the moment we decided helping him was bullshit. This just makes it official.”
Reed signals the bartender for another round, his diplomatic instincts kicking in. “Dec, I love your righteous fury, but we need to think about this rationally. If she stole it?—”
