Page 105 of Unclench Me Softly

Jax snorts. “You googled that.”

“I translated it from the Latin,” Miles replies, because of course he did.

Seb doesn’t say anything.

He just picks up a pouch of wild bergamot, rolls it between his fingers, and nods once. I have no idea what it means, but it hits me directly in the solar plexus like he just whispered something erotic about pollinators.

Then Jax steps up, scans the tray, and grabs a pouch labeled “Peppermint.”

“Sharp. Stimulating. Occasionally overwhelming in large doses,” he says, grinning. “Sounds like a masculine intention to me.”

“You’re a walking Altoid,” I mutter.

“I’m a breath of clarity,” he corrects, and pockets the seeds like he’s already planning to weaponize them.

That leaves Jonah.

He’s last, of course. He lifts the final pouch, flips it in his hand, and glances at the label. “Rue. Bitterness. Protection. Warding off evil,” he says. “Fitting.”

The others go quiet.

Because, honestly, it is.

I nod slowly, then gesture toward the center.

“Now,” I say. “Whisper your word of intention into the seeds, plant them in the soil, and offer your root to the light of surrender.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Jax raises a hand again. “Do we have to whisper the word out loud? Or can it just be a sexy internal whisper?”

“Your seed. Your choice,” I say, without blinking.

And somehow, impossibly, the ritual begins.

I kneel beside the center altar like I’m anchoring the ritual with my body alone, hands resting on my thighs, spine tall with ceremonial authority that’s hanging on by the thinnest thread of my remaining composure.

“Remember,” I say, voice calm but absolutely vibrating with effort, “Your word of intention should reflect your new softness. This isn’t about who you’ve performed. It’s about who you’re becoming. Whisper it to your seeds. Plant them gently. Paint the word on your pot with the blessed gel pen of your choosing. And yes, some have glitter.”

I pause for dramatic effect, then add, “Choose wisely.”

The first to rise is Asher, of course.

He walks forward like he’s been preparing for this moment his whole life. There’s reverence in his every step, in the way he cups the seed pouch in both hands like it might dissolve if handled without care.

He crouches beside his pot, opens the pouch, and whispers softly to the seeds inside. “Belonging,” he breathes, voice barely audible, like it’s a secret he’s scared to want.

I feel it like a pulse in my chest.

He presses the seeds into the soil with gentle fingers, then picks up a pale blue pen and writes the word carefully, like it might smudge his soul if he’s not precise. He dots the “i” with a little star.

I nearly cry.

Then Jax steps up, casual, loose-limbed, dangerous.

He crouches, glances sideways at me, and whispers to his seeds with a grin that should be illegal in ritual space. “Penetration,” he murmurs, then adds, “But gentle.”

My mouth falls open.

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