Page 50 of Unclench Me Softly

Miles raises a brow but says nothing, which confirms everything.

“Asher,” I say, “You are now the Fox Cub. Miles is the, wait, can hawks crawl?”

“Hatchlings do,” Miles mutters dryly. “But I reserve the right to fly away from this conversation at any time.”

“Fine,” I say, pointing at him. “You’re the Hawk Cub. Flight-optional.”

“Asher,” Jax grins, “What about me?”

Asher narrows his eyes, studies him like a tarot deck come to life. “Wolverine cub,” he declares. “Rough exterior, emotionally territorial, prone to acts of unexpected softness.”

Jax laughs, clearly delighted. “I’ll take it.”

I look at Seb, who’s watching this entire exchange with the same expression he probably uses to observe thunderstorms.

“Bear cub,” I say, without missing a beat. “Silent. Powerful. Probably wants to hibernate instead of deal with group feelings.”

He gives the smallest of nods. Maybe approval. Maybe survival instinct.

And then there’s Jonah.

I open my mouth, but before I can say anything, he speaks.

“Wolf cub,” he says quietly, not looking at anyone. “Pack instincts. Quiet loyalty. Dangerous when cornered.”

Everyone’s silent for a second too long.

I blink.

Oh.

Oh no.

Because apparently my clit is a sucker for poetic self-awareness delivered in a low, steady voice.

I turn too fast, trip slightly on a root, recover, pretend it didn’t happen.

“Great,” I say, far too loud. “Everyone has a cub. You are now free to embody your pre-societal instincts. Feel your paws. Embrace the dirt. Reconnect to the earth through sacred crawling.”

They nod like I just handed them ancient wisdom instead of last-minute improv.

But then, “Wait,” Jax calls out. “What about you, Bliss?”

I freeze.

“You didn’t say what your cub is,” Jax says.

All five of them turn to look at me. Even Seb. The forest goes a little too quiet, like nature is also curious.

I try to play it off. “I’m not part of the pack. I’m the facilitator of ferality. The Cub Mother. I observe, I guide, I…”

“She’s a fox too,” Asher interrupts, smiling. “But a different kind. More... cunning. More mischief in the eyes. A little trickster energy, but in a sacred way.”

I blink at him. “That’s... oddly flattering?”

He shrugs. “It’s obvious.”

Jonah tilts his head. And then, in the quietest, most casually ruinous tone imaginable, he says, “Or maybe she’s a lynx.”

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