Page 95 of Knot Your Karma
“Speaking of pack support,” Reed calls from the kitchen, voice carrying over the sound of plates clinking, “dinner’s ready, and I have news that’s going to make everyone ridiculously happy.”
We migrate toward the kitchen like pack animals following the scent of food, unconsciously arranging ourselves around Karma—Declan flanking her left side, Reed across from her, me settling where I can see everyone’s faces.
Reed’s stuffed shells smell incredible—rich tomato sauce, herbs, cheese bubbling golden on top. Comfort food that speaks to the kind of domestic contentment I never thought I’d get to experience.
“News?” Karma prompts, accepting the plate Reed hands her with a smile that makes my chest warm. Her hands move without conscious direction—straightening the salt and pepper shakers, adjusting Reed’s napkin to align with his plate edge, creating order that settles something restless in her.
“Sterling called this afternoon while you were at the shop,” Reed says, settling into his chair with obvious satisfaction, ocean spray practically sparkling with good news. “Apparently he’s been making calls to contacts in the maritime authentication world, and your reputation is preceding you in all the best ways.”
“What do you mean?” Karma’s scent spikes with nervous interest, fingers automatically reaching for my flannel cuff to worry the fabric between her thumb and forefinger.
“Three inquiries from museums asking about your availability for consultation work. The Peabody Essex wants you to authenticate a collection they’re considering for acquisition, Newport’s Maritime Museum has a provenance mystery they need solved, and here’s the big one—the Smithsonian called.”
Her fork clatters against her plate as she stares at Reed as if he’s speaking a foreign language. “The Smithsonian called Sterling about me? Like, the actual Smithsonian?”
“Apparently they have a collection of eighteenth-century navigation instruments with questionable documentation, and someone mentioned that Sterling’s new head assessor has an eye for spotting forgeries that makes auction houses nervous.” Reed’s grin is brilliant, ocean spray effervescent with shared excitement. “Karma, you haven’t even officially started yet, and you’re already in demand.”
“That’s...” Her water glass clicks against the table three times before she manages to set it down, vanilla spiking so sharply with excitement that it makes the air taste sweet. “That’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of professionally. The Smithsonian. Oh my God, what if I mess it up? What if I’m not actually good enough for this level of?—”
“You are,” I interrupt gently, reaching over to take her hand. “Your expertise, your instincts, your ability to see what others miss—it was always going to be recognized. Sterling just gave you the platform.”
“Exactly,” Declan adds, with absolute certainty. “Your reputation earned this. Sterling just opened the door.”
Through our bonds, I feel the ripple of shared pride and excitement—Declan’s protective satisfaction, Reed’s genuine enthusiasm, all of it mixing with Karma’s nervous joy to create something that feels like celebration made manifest.
“How does it feel?” I ask, feeling the slight tremor of excitement and nerves under her skin. “Knowing that in two months, you’ll be working with pieces most people only see in textbooks?”
“Terrifying and amazing and as if maybe the universe is finally done laughing at my life choices.” She laughs, the sound carrying three octaves of emotion. “As if maybe I’m actually good at something that matters.”
“You’re good at everything that matters,” Reed sayssolemnly, raising his water glass with diplomatic flair. “The universe just finally caught up with what we already knew.”
“Speaking of the universe and perfect timing,” I say, “we need to figure out logistics. Sterling wants you to start after New Year’s, which gives us time to plan everything properly.”
“Everything?” Karma’s hazel eyes go wide. “What kind of everything?”
“The move to Boston, finding a house that works for pack, getting you settled in the new position...” I pause, watching her process the enormity of the changes ahead. “And the bonding ceremony.”
“Bonding ceremony?” Her voice goes small and wondering, as if she’s testing the words. “Like... a wedding?”
“Exactly like a wedding,” Declan confirms, his cedar warming with determination and protective pride. “We’re bonded by bite, but that’s the biological connection. The ceremony is formal recognition—pack, community, family witnessing our commitment.”
“If you want one,” Reed adds quickly, diplomatic instincts recognizing her nervous energy. “We know you didn’t grow up with pack traditions, so if formal ceremonies feel overwhelming...”
“No!” she interrupts, her voice carrying quiet certainty that makes my sandalwood spike with satisfaction. “I want that. The formal recognition, the community celebration, the chance to stand in front of everyone who matters and choose you all publicly.” She pauses, her breath catching again as she unconsciously straightens the edge of her placemat. “I want to wear something beautiful and make promises that everyone can witness and have pictures to hang on our walls.”
“Then we’ll give you the most beautiful bonding ceremony Anchor’s Rest has ever seen,” Reed says, ocean spray bright with planning satisfaction. “When were you thinking?Soon, or do you want time to plan something elaborate?”
“Soon,” Karma says without hesitation. “Before we move to Boston, while we’re still here where everything started. Maybe Christmas week? When everyone’s already gathering with family anyway?”
“Christmas week works,” I say, already mentally cataloging what needs to be arranged. “Gives us time to plan properly without rushing.”
“I like that timing,” Declan adds, his voice with approval as he leans back on his chair. “Celebrating new beginnings while honoring the season.”
Through our bonds, I feel the shared excitement rippling between us—Declan’s protective satisfaction, Reed’s planning enthusiasm, Karma’s nervous joy all weaving together into something that feels like anticipation made manifest. The air itself seems to sparkle with possibility.
“Plus,” Reed adds with a grin that could charm international treaties into existence, “it gives me an excuse to plan the most diplomatically impressive reception this town has ever seen. I’m thinking lighthouse point for the ceremony, reception at the inn, coordinate with the other shop owners for decorations...”
“You want to plan our bonding ceremony as if it were a diplomatic summit,” I observe, watching him gesture with his fork in ways that probably violate several etiquette protocols.
