Page 8 of Unclench Me Softly

There’s nothing quite like the crushing serenity of knowing four rich men are arriving tomorrow for a soul-realignment retreat I invented while high on chocolate moon wine and financial dread.

I’ve got less than twenty-four hours to prepare the remaining domes, design an opening ceremony, spiritually cleanse the compost toilet, and make sure nobody dies from whatever the hell is growing near the pond.

Also, I still haven’t figured out if I need to actually lead the first ritual or just play a singing bowl while looking mysterious and unbothered.

Spoiler: I am not unbothered.

I hustle across the compound, barefoot because my sandals broke in the Lavender Labyrinth (which is not a metaphor), holding a list I wrote on the back of a “5 Easy Steps to Unlocking Your Goddess Frequency” flyer.

Dome Two: half-furnished. Dome Three: smells faintly of despair and feral raccoon energy. Dome Four: missing the entire mattress because I let Toad borrow it for “herbal infusion purposes,” and I do not have time to unpack that.

While I fluff a pillow and aggressively mist a mattress with lavender spray that might be mostly vodka, I try to mentally script tomorrow’s welcome ceremony.

Okay, Bliss, just channel your inner guru. Something gentle. Something grounding. Something that says “healing” and not “help, I’ve made a huge mistake.”

“Welcome, sacred seekers. You have arrived at the threshold of transformation...”

Threshold is good. Threshold sounds powerful. Like a place you enter barefoot and leave weeping.

“Today, we begin the journey of Sacred Softening. A releasing. A remembering. A return to your inner cub’s howl...”

“No. That sounds like a werewolf thing,” I mutter.

I make a note:Less werewolf. More surrender.

I stop mid-spritz.

“No. No, Bliss, no, that’s Day Two. Day One is the unclenching one. The jaw. The fist. The ego. Right.”

I flip the flyer over and stare at my scribbles.

Unclench. Exhale. Ego death with grace.

Okay. That sounds fake deep. We love it.

“Welcome, sacred seekers. You have arrived at the threshold of transformation. Today, we begin the great unclenching...”

I wrinkle my nose. “Okay but that sounds like a butthole thing.”

Note to self: workshop the phrasing. Maybe use “liberation” instead of “unclenching”? Spiritual liberation of the masculine mouth fist aura ego complex. Yeah. That’s probably a thing.

I toss a throw blanket over the bed that I hope says “retreat luxury” and not “flea market panic,” then sprint to Dome Five, where the ceiling is still leaking in a very judgmental way.

As I slap up a “please do not touch the sacred plumbing” sign, I hear the crack-thunk of Jax splitting wood in the background like it personally insulted his ancestors. Every hit reverberates through the trees and my spine like a warning bell.

I can’t tell if he’s avoiding me or showing off. Either way, it’s rude.

I push open the door to the next dome and immediately gag. “Toad!”

He appears like an old woodland curse. “Yeah?”

“Why does this one smell like...fermented patchouli and shame?”

“That’s the old mushroom tea chamber.”

I blink at him.

He shrugs. “Solara was really into bio-spiritual mycology in her later years.”

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