Page 68 of Knot Your Karma
“Better?” I murmur, fingers threading through her wild hair.
“Mm—better—but still—” She can’t finish the thought, heat making complex sentences impossible. But her meaning is clear—satisfied for now, but the cycle isn’t finished.
My knot deflates enough for me to slip out, and immediately seed gushes from her well-used cunt. The sight triggers every territorial alpha instinct—omega full of pack seed, thoroughly claimed and still wanting more.
“Look at that,” Declan rumbles, moving closer to spread her thighs and watch our combined fluids leak from her. “Thoroughly claimed and still desperate for more attention.”
“Always—during heat—” she whimpers, reaching for Reed with trembling hands. Her speech is still fragmented,but her body language is clear—need more, need pack, need to be completely satisfied.
“We’ve got you,” Reed assures her, his voice carrying the rough edge of beta responding to omega in heat. “Gonna make sure you get everything you need.”
Heat is nowhere near finished, and rut is just settling into its rhythm. By the time her cycle ends, she’ll understand exactly what pack claiming means when human restraints disappear and only designation biology remains.
Perfect omega. Perfect pack. Exactly as our biology intended.
The careful craftsman in me appreciates the symmetry—omega heat triggering alpha rut, pack bonds deepening through biological honesty, everything building exactly as it should.
Strong foundation. Perfect materials. Built to last.
Just like everything else I create, this pack is designed for permanence.
Karma
I wakeup feeling like I’ve been thoroughly dismantled and reassembled by three alphas who apparently treat omega satisfaction like a competitive sport they’re determined to win.
The nest smells like a pack scent explosion—Declan’s rain-soaked wood mixed with Reed’s ocean spray and Adrian’s sandalwood in ways that tell the whole story of last night’s claiming marathon, which would be embarrassing if it didn’t smell so perfectly like home.
I’m alone among the rumpled fabric, but movement drifts up from the kitchen—quiet voices and the sound of someone who actually understands breakfast beyond my usualcaffeine-and-whatever-doesn’t-require-cookingroutine.
When I try to sit up, my thighs tremble like I’ve attempted marathon running while carrying furniture. Which seems accurate if marathons involved multiple rounds of claiming by men with apparently infinite stamina and very detailed approaches to omega satisfaction.
My fingertips find Adrian’s claiming bite on my neck, which throbs with this pleasant heat that would be embarrassing to explain to anyone.
“Easy there.” Declan’s voice carries up the stairwell.
Declan shows up in my doorway carrying a tray that smells like heaven, which is impressive because my usual breakfast involves coffee that tastes like filtered disappointment and whatever doesn’t require actual cooking skills. His dark hair sticks up at angles from finger-raking, but those storm-blue eyes immediately scan me with an intensity that straightens my spine automatically.
“Report,” he says, settling the tray on my nightstand with careful movements before perching on the bed’s edge. “And don’t sayfinebecause we both know that’s omega-speak foreverything hurts but I’m pretending it doesn’t.”
I accept the coffee with hands that only shake slightly. The first sip tastes like liquid salvation—real cream swirled through dark roast instead of whatever powdered chemical usually masquerades as dairy in my kitchen. The appreciative sound I make can probably be heard in neighboring towns.
“Like I’ve been thoroughly demolished by a very competent wrecking crew,” I admit. “Also like every romance novel I’ve ever read committed false advertising about post-claiming recovery time. Pretty sure there’s grounds for a class action lawsuit by disappointed omegas everywhere.”
His smile transforms stern features—laugh lines crinkling around eyes that soften with something suspiciously close to adoration.
“Good demolition or bad demolition?”
“Mixed results. They nailed the thoroughly satisfied part, but seriously underestimated themy entire skeletal system feels disassembled and reassembled by enthusiastic but slightly inexperienced mechanicsaspect.”
His palm finds my ankle through the quilt, thumb stroking gently.
“Reed produced enough anchor-shaped pancakes to supply a museum.” His voice carries fond exasperation mixed with unmistakable pride. “Adrian’s been stress-organizing your kitchen since five AM. Pretty sure he color-coordinated your tea collection.”
“He what?” I blink, processing this while something low in my belly flutters with warmth. “I don’t color-coordinate anything. I organize by caffeine content and stack-ability, which is a completely logical system requiring zero improvement.”
“He also labeled everything. Tiny block letters like architectural blueprints.”
I stare at him, coffee suspended halfway to my mouth while steam rises between us. “He labeled spices I use daily. Spices I definitely know the names of because I’m not suffering from condiment-related amnesia.”
