Page 9 of Unclench Me Softly

“You’re just saying words now.”

He holds up a rag. “Want me to wipe down the walls with cedar oil and hope for the best?”

“Do it,” I sigh. “And if the walls start talking, tell them we’re closed.”

As he disappears into the dome of fungal horrors, I pause to take a deep breath. It smells like mildew and ambition.

Okay. I can do this. I’ve made weirder things work. That time I accidentally led a womb-cleansing workshop in a spin class studio? They loved it.

I just need the ceremony to hit the right balance of mystical, profound, and vague enough that no one asks real questions. Maybe throw in a few props. God, I wish I had a gong.

I look up at the sky, which is a perfect pastel pink, like the universe is mocking me with calm.

Tomorrow’s the beginning of the Five Pillars. Day One: Unclenching.

I, Bliss Eden Calloway, am going to guide five emotionally constipated men into surrender. I am going to lead them with grace, power, and exactly zero actual qualifications.

Unless I forget my speech and trip over a crystal. Again.

It’s fine. I’ve got this.

I think.

There’s a sacred art to staging a healing circle. It’s all about intention, energy flow, and making sure the mats don’t show visible mildew stains.

I’m in Dome One, fanning sage smoke toward a pile of crystal-charged river rocks and trying to arrange the circle of meditation cushions in a way that says “I gently guide masculine rebirth,” not “I bought all of this in a panic at TJ Maxx.”

Everything smells like lavender, eucalyptus, and mild desperation. I should feel centered.

Instead, I am ragefully aroused.

Because outside the open dome flap, Jax Riot is shirtless. And chopping wood again.

That’s not a euphemism.

He is literally, for some reason, still chopping wood like he’s preparing for a Viking funeral. Every swing of the axe is loud, muscular, and deeply unnecessary.

“No one asked you to do that!” I hiss, mostly to myself. “There’s no Chopping Ceremony. That’s not a pillar.”

He’s doing it just close enough that I can see him through the dome’s mesh panels. His back glistens. His tattoos flex. His jeans hang in that low, tragic way that says this man ruins lives for sport.

I force myself to turn back to the circle. I place the stress-relief stones (which are really just semi-smooth garden rocks I saged aggressively last night) in a little pile at the center of the cushions.

“Gentlemen,” I whisper to myself, practicing, “Welcome to the sacred circle of Release. Today we begin the holy act of unclenching.”

I pause.

Still sounds like buttholes.

I glance outside again. Jax has taken a break from splitting logs and is now drinking water from a mason jar like it personally betrayed him. He tips it back, throat working, biceps flexing, and for a brief second I forget how to spell the word “chakra.”

“Focus,” I mutter, realigning a cushion like it personally offended me. “You are a goddess. You are the storm. You are a woman who leads men into spiritual awakening, not into... whatever that would be.”

But then he grins at something. Just out of nowhere. Not at me. Not even aware I’m watching.

And I feel my solar plexus do something it shouldn’t. Something soft. Something warm.

“No,” I say out loud, pointing at myself like I’m disciplining a horny cat. “Bad Bliss. You are not spiritually available for a man who thinks deodorant is optional and wears rage like a fashion statement.”

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