Page 94 of Knot Your Karma
“Sounds perfect. Now go see your mate, sweetheart. I can hear it in your voice—you need to be with your pack.”
She’s right. I’d spent the last two weeks reaching for phantom warmth in empty hotel beds, my scent going flat without a pack to ground it. Every morning brought the disorienting awareness of wrongness, as if walking into a room and forgetting what I’d come to find. Bonded mate separation is a physical ache that settles between your ribs and refuses to ease.
“Love you, Ma.”
“Love you too. Call me tomorrow with Christmas plans. And Adrian? I’m proud of you. For finding love, for choosing happiness, for building the family you deserve.”
I hang up and sit in my truck for a moment, just absorbing the sight of home. Karma’s little house glows with warmth and activity—I can see movement in the kitchen, hear the faint sound of music and laughter through the windows. The slight warp in the front door frame that’s been bothering me catches the porch light, but even structural imperfectionscan’t diminish the contentment that settles in my bones. My pack is in there, living their lives, waiting for me to come home.
The front door opens before I’m halfway up the walk, and there she is.
Karma Rose, my omega, my mate, the woman who sees beauty in broken things and somehow convinced three scarred men that they deserved love. She’s wearing one of my flannel shirts over leggings, her hair escaping from a messy bun, and when she sees me, her face lights up as if sunrise were breaking over the harbor.
She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.
“Adrian!” She launches herself off the porch, and I catch her easily, spinning her around until she laughs—that bright, delighted sound that’s become my favorite music.
She presses her face against my shoulder, breathing deep as small satisfied sounds escape her throat, and the restless ache between my ribs finally eases. From inside the house, I can hear movement—Declan and Reed appearing in the doorway with expressions of relief and welcome.
“Missed you,” I murmur against her hair, setting her feet back on the ground but keeping her close. She presses her face against my shoulder, breathing in deep pulls of my scent as if she’s been holding her breath for days, small satisfied sounds escaping her throat.
“Missed you too. The house felt wrong without you. As if we were missing a vital piece.” She pulls back to look at me, hazel eyes serious and searching. “How did the estate thing go? Did you get everything sorted?”
“Three nineteenth-century armoires restored and delivered. One very satisfied client. Enough money to keep us comfortable through the holidays.” I cup her face in my hands, thumbs brushing across her cheekbones while I absorb details—the way candlelight flickers against the windows behind her, how her shoulders settle when thepack is complete. “But I don’t want to talk about work right now.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“Nothing,” I say, leaning down to kiss her properly. “Absolutely nothing.”
Her mouth is soft and warm under mine, responding with the kind of eager affection that makes my pulse race and my scent spike with satisfaction. When we break apart, she’s flushed and breathless, and I have to resist the urge to carry her straight upstairs and reacquaint myself with every inch of her properly.
“Come inside,” she says, taking my hand with fingers that automatically worry the cuff of my shirt. “Reed’s making something that smells incredible, and Declan’s been muttering about loose floorboards in the guest bedroom for the last hour. I think he’s been channeling his ‘Adrian’s away’ energy into home improvement projects.”
The moment I step inside, everything settles.
Pack scent, our scent, the combination that means safety and belonging and everything good in the world. Karma immediately moves to my side, fingers catching in my shirt as she breathes in my sandalwood scent—small comfort behaviors that speak to how much she missed having a complete pack.
“Adrian!” Reed appears in the kitchen doorway, wooden spoon in hand and flour somehow dusted across his dark hair. “Perfect timing. I’m attempting to prove that diplomats can master Italian cuisine, and I need someone with actual taste buds to tell me if I’ve achieved culinary greatness or created an international incident.”
“Since when do you cook Italian?” I ask, pulling him into a one-armed hug while keeping hold of Karma’s hand. Steam from his pasta carries the scent upward making my mouth water and my stomach growl.
“Since our omega expressed strong opinions about propercomfort food, and I have a pathological need to excel at everything I attempt.” Reed grins, wooden spoon gesticulating with diplomatic enthusiasm. “Plus Declan made the mistake of betting against my marinara skills. You know how I feel about losing bets to overconfident alphas.”
“Where is our overconfident alpha?”
“Upstairs, waging war against innocent floorboards,” Karma says with fond exasperation and a touch of amusement. “I mentioned that the guest room floor creaks, and he took it as a personal challenge to fix every structural issue in the house.”
As if summoned by his name, footsteps thunder down the stairs, and Declan appears with his tool belt hanging lower on his hips from the weight of extra screws and brackets, sawdust clinging to his shirt sleeves. His expression carries that satisfied intensity that usually means he’s solved a problem through the application of superior planning and brute force.
“Adrian. Good.” He strides over and pulls me into the kind of brief, backslapping hug that manages to convey days’ worth of missed pack connection in ten seconds. His scent sharpens with relief, mixing with protective satisfaction that makes my own settle into deeper contentment. “How’d the Vermont job go?”
“Profitable and finished. How’s the home improvement campaign?”
“Guest room floor is structurally sound, bathroom faucet no longer drips, identified seventeen additional projects that should be addressed before winter.” Declan’s scent carries deep satisfaction—evidence of three days spent in full provider mode, channeling protective instincts into making our space perfect.
“Seventeen?” Karma laughs, the sound bright enough to make all our scents lift in response. “Declan, I’ve lived here for four years without addressing most of those issues.”
“Four years without pack support.” He automatically checks the stability of the kitchen doorframe as he leans against it. “That changes now.”
