Page 57 of Unclench Me Softly

Miles mutters, “We should not.”

But it’s too late. Asher is up. Arms out.

And one by one, begrudging, awkward, but real, they stand. Move in. Closer.

Until I’m standing in the middle of five emotionally recalibrated, nature-scented men in a very real, very warm, very overwhelming group hug.

I’m not crying.

I’m not.

But my inner cub is definitely making weird little whimpering noises and possibly imprinting on someone’s pectoral muscle.

“I’m proud of you,” I murmur, crushed somewhere between Jax’s bicep and Asher’s joy aura. “You’ve all been incredibly brave. Tomorrow…” I pause. Dramatic. Sacred. “…we enter Sacred Stillness in the Root Chakra Lounge™.”

Asher gasps like I just announced enlightenment.

Miles says, “I have no idea what that means, and I already dread it.”

Jax grins. “Sounds sexy.”

Seb grunts again. He might be speaking wolf now. Hard to say.

And Jonah leans in just enough to make me feel it and says, low and lethal, “Stillness can be the most dangerous thing.”

I immediately forget how to breathe.

I have created a monster.

Or five of them.

And I’m pretty sure they’re all mine.

Bliss-ism #27.5/w

Surrender doesn’t mean giving up. It means lying down naked on a crystal mat and letting the universe do unspeakable things to your energy field.

Chapter Eleven:

Sacred Stillness Is Tomorrow, But This Ain’t It

The hug finally breaks apart like a too-long group therapy improv exercise. Asher’s glowing. Jax claps Seb on the back like they’ve survived war. Jonah vanishes into the trees like the shadows summoned him. And I’m still reeling from the howls, from the hugging, and from the fact that this was supposed to be a fake retreat, and now my internal world feels like a cracked geode leaking light and mild horniness.

I turn to start collecting the sacred tea jars, but then I feel it.

Someone’s still there. Behind me.

I turn slowly, like I’m afraid it’ll be a wild raccoon or worse, a man I can’t emotionally handle right now.

It’s Miles. Of course it’s Miles. Standing a few steps away, arms loosely folded, looking... not sarcastic.

His sleeves are rolled up. His hair’s slightly mussed. There’s a pine needle stuck to his hip. And he’s watching me with the unsettling intensity of a man who’s either about to ask for a spreadsheet or change your life with a single sentence. “Hey,” he says.

My brain short-circuits. Miles doesn’t say “hey.” Miles says things like “statistically speaking.” Or “that’s illogical.”

“Hey,” I say back, already suspicious.

He glances toward the woods, then back at me. “You okay?”

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