Page 94 of Unclench Me Softly

Miles follows, more precise, as if the pressure of his thumb matters more than the mark itself. He presses a small, geometric symbol just above my hip, then steps back, silently cataloging whatever it is he’s just admitted to with that touch.

When Jonah steps in, I forget how to breathe.

He dips his thumb into the ash, then reaches for my chest, slowly, watching me the entire time, and marks me just over my heart. His eyes don’t leave mine for a second, and the press of his skin to mine sends something molten and terrifying down my spine.

“Mine’s not a word,” he says. “It’s a truth.”

I’m about to combust when Jax, in true Jax fashion, drops to one knee like he’s proposing to my inner wild woman and presses his ash-covered fingers against the inside of my thigh. His grin is pure sin and smoke, and the symbol he paints could be a rune, a curse, or a dirty joke. Possibly all three.

“Mine’s definitely innuendo,” he says, smirking up at me like I’m a canvas and he’s about to start a new series called Sacred and Slightly Horny.

“Obviously,” I mutter, but my voice comes out a little too breathless to sell the sarcasm.

Then, somehow, we’re laughing. Not loud, not obnoxious, just quietly, together, like something has broken loose inside this circle that none of us want to put back in a box.

I reach down and gather a little ash myself, my hands trembling more than I’d like to admit, and one by one, I anoint them in return.

I paint a spiral on Asher’s chest and whisper, “Divine.”

He blushes like I’ve proposed marriage.

On Seb, I leave a streak across his hip, no name, no explanation.

Miles gets a symbol that might be nonsense but feels important as I draw it, something abstract across the ridges of his abs, and when I murmur, “Stillness,” he closes his eyes like I’ve just handed him something fragile.

Jonah doesn’t look away when I mark him. I don’t even remember what I paint, only that my fingers tremble and his skin is warm and he watches me like he wants to devour the intention in my hands.

And Jax doesn’t wait. He pulls me close and lets me swipe both palms across his chest like I’m branding him with whatever the hell this is, ash and fire and a feral kind of reverence that leaves me breathless.

When it’s over, we’re all covered, laughing, sweating, marked by flame and dust and each other.

And somehow, in the center of all this chaos, I don’t feel like the leader anymore.

I feel like the altar.

Bliss-isms for the Blank Space Between What Was and What’s Coming

(Ritual not required, but recommended.)

Bliss-ism #97/a

When in doubt, breathe deeply, light some sage, and act like the silence is on purpose.

Bliss-ism #77/m

Not every seed needs to explode to be fertile. Sometimes softness is the most radical act of masculinity.

Bliss-ism #92/x

Sleep deep. Dream weird. And may your root chakra remain pleasantly destabilized.

Bliss-ism #99/w

If your breakthrough doesn’t involve dirt, tears, or light nudity, did it even happen?

Bliss-ism #58/q

Nature doesn’t judge you for crying in a pile of sticks. That’s your job.

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