Page 93 of Unclench Me Softly

Then again.

Because of course he would be the one to break the sacred silence with something that sounds vaguely erotic and definitely cult-adjacent. And of course he says it like it’s the most natural suggestion in the world, like we all woke up this morning fully prepared to end the evening by finger-painting declarations of emotional loyalty across my thighs.

I open my mouth to shut it down, but I catch the flicker of movement across the firelight.

Miles chokes softly, trying not to react like a man who just heard the word “thigh” in a professional setting.

Asher looks inspired. Like he’s already mentally drafting his word of devotion. And knowing him, it would be something devastatingly sincere like “radiance” or “wildlight” and it would make me cry.

Seb tilts his head slightly, expression unreadable except for the small, solemn nod that tells me he’s one hundred percent on board with this plan. He would anoint me. Without hesitation. And then probably go chop wood about it with Jax.

Jonah doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t move. But the way he’s watching me across the fire, like I’m already marked... it does something terrible to my spine.

I just stand there, wrapped in too much robe and not nearly enough emotional stability, my brain short-circuiting somewhere between rage, arousal, and the absolutely horrifying realization that I might actually want them to do it.

Not because it’s appropriate. Not because it’s part of the ritual. But because I’ve built something I don’t know how to name.

Why do I feel like this has happened to me in another life?

“Absolutely not,” I say. “This robe is dry clean only.”

They laugh softly together.

And it hits me all at once, they’re not laughing at me. They’re laughing with me. Like I’m not their leader. I’m something else now.

Sacred. Claimed. A little bit feral.

I look down at the envelope in my hand, and whisper, just to myself, “Gods help me, I think I’m the altar.”

The silence hangs like smoke. Heavy. Flickering.

Then Jax takes a step forward, and I already know something is about to happen because he has that glint in his eye, the one that always precedes chaos, or a very good orgasm, or both.

He stops directly in front of me, standing close enough that I can smell smoke and skin and whatever cologne he somehow makes smell like sex and wilderness. He reaches out, not grabbing or groping, just casually hooking two fingers in the edge of my robe, his expression open but daring, like he’s giving me the option to stop him, but betting I won’t.

He’s right.

I nod, barely, and that’s all the permission he needs.

He slides the robe from my shoulders with agonizing patience, slow enough to feel ceremonial, like this is some kind of sacred offering instead of me standing bare-chested under the stars while five spiritually rewilded men look at me like I’m made of prophecy.

The fabric pools around my feet, a soft whisper in the grass, and suddenly I’m mostly bare, vulnerable, glowing, and vibrating somewhere between erotic power fantasy and emotional paralysis.

I expect shock. I expect someone to crack a joke. But what I get is reverence.

They don’t leer. They don’t stare in that hungry way. They look at me like I’m part of the ritual.

And then Asher, sweet, solemn Asher, steps forward with his fingertips already stained with ash. His eyes meet mine, wide, a little awed, and he touches the space just below my collarbone with the gentleness of someone handling a relic.

“This,” he murmurs, the word barely audible over the fire, “Is for radiance.”

Of course it is.

Seb moves next, quiet and sure, dipping his fingers in the ash bowl and dragging two crooked lines across my ribs. His hand is rough, callused, but the touch is soft, intentional.

“This one’s mine,” he says. “It doesn’t need a name.”

He doesn’t look at me when he says it, but I feel the weight of whatever he’s burning away.

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