Chapter Nine
Return to Wild, Do Not Pass Go, Do Not Kiss Anyone
There’s something sacred about a morning spent braiding beads into your hair while pretending you’re not emotionally destabilized from making out with a man who smells like trauma and eucalyptus.
I sit cross-legged on the edge of the fire circle, robe loose, coffee hot, fingers weaving small wooden beads and bits of moss into my crown like I’m channeling my inner wolf priestess-slash-retreat coordinator-slash-kiss-dazed idiot. The sun is just barely crawling over the hills, the air smells like dew and leftover sage smoke, and for three whole minutes, I feel like I have my shit together.
Today is Rewild the Inner Wolf-Cub? day.
Which means I need to be:
Grounded
Composed
In control of my emotions and my pelvic floor
Ready to lead five nearly feral, dangerously attractive men into the woods and not accidentally make one of them a pack alpha through prolonged eye contact
I take a deep breath and murmur a morning affirmation into the wild. “I am the guide. I am the alpha of emotional recalibration. I will not kiss anyone in the woods, no matter how vulnerable they look mid-crawl.”
“Hey!” Toad’s voice cuts through the mist like a kazoo at a funeral.
I blink, startled, and promptly drop my bead string into my coffee. “Seriously?” I groan at the cup, then shout over my shoulder, “Toad, I swear to the goddess if this is about the raccoon again.”
“Nope!” he calls. “You got a truck!”
I turn.
There is, in fact, a delivery truck crawling up the gravel path like it regrets all its life choices. Dust rises behind it. A logo I don’t recognize is printed on the side in big leafy letters: SPIRITGEAR EXPRESS .
I frown. “I didn’t order anything,” I mutter, rising to my feet, beads swinging in my hair like judgmental tassels.
Toad shrugs. “They said it’s for you. And five other recipients. Real mysterious-like.”
My stomach does a little flip. Which is probably fine. Probably. Could be breakfast panic.
I jog over just in time to see the delivery guy hop out and open the back, revealing six neatly labeled boxes with little wolf stickers on them.
Each one says:
“Bliss Calloway’s Rewilding Essentials – Participant Edition”
I stare. “Oh no.”
The driver grins. “You’re Bliss? I need a signature.”
I sign something that might be a release form or a pact with a forest deity, then grab the box marked “FEMME LEADER (One Size Fits Sacred)” and pry it open.
Inside is knee pads.
Really nice knee pads. Gel-cushioned, adjustable-strapped, eco-conscious, moss-colored, with tiny embroidered paw prints.
There’s a card taped to the inside flap, written in soft, looped handwriting.
Hi Bliss,
I figured crawling meditation might be a little more comfortable with these.
Didn’t want anyone’s knees to suffer on their path to primal rebirth.
Hope that’s okay.
Asher :)
P.S. Yours are a special order. Ethically sourced foam and the straps are lined with bamboo silk so they won’t chafe. Comfort is sacred, too.
I close the box. Open it again. Close it one more time, just to make sure I don’t accidentally cry onto the sacred foam.
Toad peers over my shoulder. “Fancy kneepads,” he says, nodding like this is normal.
“They’re for the crawling meditation,” I whisper.
Toad blinks. “You makin’ ‘em crawl today?”
“Yes,” I say.
“For real?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Damn,” he says. “Kinky.”
I glare at him.
He shrugs and walks away.
I stand there for a moment longer, surrounded by boxes of thoughtful, coordinated primal support gear from a man who spent yesterday moaning during pigeon pose and is somehow now trying to protect my knees from spiritual abrasion.
I am not okay.
I have five men to feed, a ceremony to run, and no plan for what to do if one of them hands me another act of unsolicited kindness. I can deal with fists and ego and rage.
But this?
This is emotional kneepads.
And I don’t have the armor for that.
An hour later, the men arrive one by one like it’s a primal breakfast sermon and I’m the emotionally compromised high priestess of cinnamon-glazed surrender.
They’re all wearing the kneepads.
All of them.
Asher looks delighted. Like he’s been waiting his entire life for a moment where group-coordinated knee protection was not only appropriate, but emotionally supportive.
Seb says nothing, of course, but he gives me a tiny nod like he sees the gesture and is secretly touched in his haunted lumberjack way.
Miles appears entirely unbothered, but I clock the way he adjusted his straps just right, like he read a manual on “elegant kneeling.”
Jonah’s? Already dusty. He probably tested them before breakfast like it was part of a military op. I try not to think about what it would be like to have that man crawl toward me on purpose. I fail.
And Jax is somehow both sulky and smug about it. He lounges against a bench like this is all hilarious to him, but his kneepads are on. He didn’t say no. He’s here. And that alone is enough to make my stomach do something profoundly unprofessional.
I take a breath, smile like I’ve got my life together, and gesture toward the long table set up beneath the willow tree.
“Welcome to our pre-Rewild nourishment ritual,” I say, voice steady, hands trembling slightly from either nerves or repressed lust, it’s hard to say. “Everything served here today is intentionally selected to support your transition into your inner cub.”
Asher nods, immediately reverent.
Jax smirks.
Miles raises an eyebrow. “What, exactly, are we eating?”
I gesture gracefully toward the spread: a collection of toaster pastries, semi-sliced bananas, chia seed pudding I did not make, and a pile of herbal tea bags arranged in a loose spiral that might be art or just poor time management.
“Each item has been curated to align with primal simplicity,” I lie. “These pastries represent duality, the wild and the sweet, the processed and the pure. The frosting is symbolic of our external masks. The filling? Our gooey inner truth.”
Jonah coughs lightly, covering what might be a laugh. I ignore it.
“The bananas are, obviously, a nod to our ancestral roots. And the tea,” I say, lifting a mug, “Was selected through guided intuition and pantry desperation.”
Jax is openly grinning now. “So we’re eating Pop-Tarts and vibes.”
I shoot him a look. “Pop-Tarts is a colonial construct. These are ceremonial dual-aspect pastries.”
Asher looks visibly moved. “That makes so much sense.”
Seb picks up a pastry, stares at it for a long moment, then carefully bites into it like he’s tasting his past lives.
I try to sit like I haven’t just been emotionally sucker-punched by a box of pre-packaged sugar. My thighs are sticking to my robe, and I’m starting to think one of these men is going to ruin me, and the terrifying part is I don’t know which one.
Jax catches me looking at him. He doesn’t say anything. Just chews. Slow. Smirking like he knows exactly what I’m thinking and is absolutely not going to help me stop thinking it.
I clear my throat and press my palms together. “Once you finish your nourishment,” I say, “We’ll begin with our first exercise: crawling meditation. A return to innocence. To earth. To instinct.”
Miles blinks. “You’re going to make us crawl in the woods.”
“Yes,” I say, rising with all the authority of a woman held together by caffeine, delusion, and repressed attraction. “On all fours. Through nature. Silently. With purpose.”
There is a beat of silence.
Then Asher whispers, “Do we pick a spirit animal name first, or... after?”
I exhale slowly through my nose.
It’s fine.
I’m fine.
I am a guide. I am a vessel. I am not going to imagine what it would be like to crawl beside Jax Riot in the underbrush like we’re two mating forest demons on a dewy damp morning hunt for meaning.
I clutch my mug.
The tea tastes like lavender and chaos.
The trail to the forest is soft beneath our feet, sun slanting through the trees like golden judgment. I lead the way, head held high, robe fluttering behind me like the slightly stained cape of a woman desperately pretending this is going exactly to plan.
Behind me, the sound of shuffling feet and light banter drifts forward, plus the occasional knee pad squish, which is not as dignified as I hoped it would be during my moon ceremony planning phase.
“You know,” Jax says casually, “If we’re doing this cub thing for real, we probably should pick spirit animals. Gotta know what kind of emotionally wounded woodland creature we’re channeling, right?”
I glance back at him.
He’s walking like he owns the dirt beneath him, smug and loose-limbed, the very image of a man who is 90% inappropriate thoughts and 10% plot twist vulnerability. The worst part is... he’s not wrong.
Asher perks up instantly. “Oh my god yes, I was literally thinking about that during breakfast. I already have three top candidates based on my inner emotional terrain and childhood animal archetypes.”
Of course he does.
I sigh, but I’m already giving in. “Fine,” I say, spinning around dramatically. “Let’s do it.”
They all stop.
“Choose your cub,” I say, spreading my arms like I planned this moment on purpose and not just because Asher is vibrating with mystical enthusiasm. “Today, you crawl not as men, but as the innocent, pre-conditioned version of your spirit self. So choose wisely. Choose from your gut.”
Jax snorts. “This is the best fever dream I’ve ever had.”
Asher bounces slightly on the balls of his feet. “Okay, so I think I’m a fox cub. Because foxes are curious, emotionally intelligent, and have historically complicated relationships with human structures, which speaks to my personal journey with vulnerability and boundaries.”
I blink. “Sure.”
“Miles is a hawk,” Asher continues confidently. “Detached, hyper-observant, probably trying to solve the retreat in his head like a puzzle box.”
Miles raises a brow but says nothing, which confirms everything.
“Asher,” I say, “You are now the Fox Cub. Miles is the, wait, can hawks crawl?”
“Hatchlings do,” Miles mutters dryly. “But I reserve the right to fly away from this conversation at any time.”
“Fine,” I say, pointing at him. “You’re the Hawk Cub. Flight-optional.”
“Asher,” Jax grins, “What about me?”
Asher narrows his eyes, studies him like a tarot deck come to life. “Wolverine cub,” he declares. “Rough exterior, emotionally territorial, prone to acts of unexpected softness.”
Jax laughs, clearly delighted. “I’ll take it.”
I look at Seb, who’s watching this entire exchange with the same expression he probably uses to observe thunderstorms.
“Bear cub,” I say, without missing a beat. “Silent. Powerful. Probably wants to hibernate instead of deal with group feelings.”
He gives the smallest of nods. Maybe approval. Maybe survival instinct.
And then there’s Jonah.
I open my mouth, but before I can say anything, he speaks.
“Wolf cub,” he says quietly, not looking at anyone. “Pack instincts. Quiet loyalty. Dangerous when cornered.”
Everyone’s silent for a second too long.
I blink.
Oh.
Oh no.
Because apparently my clit is a sucker for poetic self-awareness delivered in a low, steady voice.
I turn too fast, trip slightly on a root, recover, pretend it didn’t happen.
“Great,” I say, far too loud. “Everyone has a cub. You are now free to embody your pre-societal instincts. Feel your paws. Embrace the dirt. Reconnect to the earth through sacred crawling.”
They nod like I just handed them ancient wisdom instead of last-minute improv.
But then, “Wait,” Jax calls out. “What about you, Bliss?”
I freeze.
“You didn’t say what your cub is,” Jax says.
All five of them turn to look at me. Even Seb. The forest goes a little too quiet, like nature is also curious.
I try to play it off. “I’m not part of the pack. I’m the facilitator of ferality. The Cub Mother. I observe, I guide, I…”
“She’s a fox too,” Asher interrupts, smiling. “But a different kind. More... cunning. More mischief in the eyes. A little trickster energy, but in a sacred way.”
I blink at him. “That’s... oddly flattering?”
He shrugs. “It’s obvious.”
Jonah tilts his head. And then, in the quietest, most casually ruinous tone imaginable, he says, “Or maybe she’s a lynx.”
I don’t breathe.
He continues, voice smooth, heat curling under the words. “Hard to see. Always listening. Keeps her claws hidden until it’s too late.”
My spine tingles.
My inner thighs pulse.
My entire aura clenches like it just got kissed.
I swallow. “Right. Okay. That’s... fine. We’re not doing labels. You’re all cubs. Let’s crawl.”
And I spin and march into the woods, hair swinging, robe flaring, knees barely steady, trying not to cry, combust, or pounce on a man who just spiritually identified my soul as a sexy predator.
I am not okay.
And I haven’t even blown the start-of-crawling flute yet.
We reach the edge of the forest clearing, and I pause beside a small stack of cushions and an ethically harvested pinecone altar. I close my eyes, center myself, and try to channel the energy of a woman who has not just been labeled a lynx by a man with secrets in his jawline and intentions in his voice.
“Before we begin,” I say, hands lifted like I’m holding invisible sacred bowls of ancestral intention, “Remember that this practice is about surrender. Instinct. Returning to the ground-level version of yourself, where the world isn’t built on language or performance, just breath, movement, and ancient knowing.”
They nod.
I can’t tell if they’re mocking me or if they’ve genuinely crossed into the sacred absurd.
I hold up a carved wooden flute, mostly decorative, and blow a short, breathy tone that echoes weirdly through the trees. A few birds scatter.
“That’s the start tone,” I announce. “Crawling begins now. Stay low. Stay silent. Feel your animal.”
And then they drop. Like full-grown feral men sliding into primal crawl position like this is a test they trained for.
I blink.
Seb is already ten feet ahead of the group, moving like a panther ghost. Asher is breathy but focused, clearly narrating the crawl in his mind like it’s a spiritual TED Talk. Miles moves with precision, back flat, arms angled like he’s tracking a target through a forest of unprocessed emotion. Jax growls, actually growls, and takes off through the trees like he’s part of an emotionally complicated National Geographic special.
And Jonah crawls like he’s done this before.
Not in a weird way, but in a way that feels… dangerous.
Each movement slow and quiet and grounded, like the earth is something he respects too much to rush. His head stays low, but I feel his awareness like heat tracking across my skin. When he moves past me, I swear I can hear him breathe, steady, deep, like he’s syncing with the pulse of the forest.
My thighs clench reflexively.
I follow behind them, adjusting my robe like a spiritual lifeguard, trying not to trip on roots or lust or regret.
We move through the trees. Pine needles crunch. Kneepads squish. The occasional grunt or breathy sigh floats through the branches like it’s part of some sacred erotic audiobook I didn’t mean to download.
And then Jax slows down.
Lets me catch up.
He looks over his shoulder, back arched slightly, eyes bright. “You sure we’re not just reenacting some weird fantasy you had in your twenties?” he murmurs.
I glare at him. “If I wanted that fantasy, you’d all be wearing antlers and calling me Mother Moon.”
He laughs, low, warm, teasing. “Damn. Maybe for the next retreat.”
I scowl, trip slightly, and keep crawling. Do not engage the horny wolverine. Do not.
Then Asher slows down beside me, whispering, “Are we supposed to growl softly, or just internally embody the animal?”
“Just breathe,” I hiss. “You’re a fox. Be sly.”
“Oh,” he says, grinning. “Then I’m definitely slinking right now.”
I do not respond because Jax is in front of me again, crawling like he’s auditioning for the role of “Sexual Tension in Nature,” and I am spiritually unprepared.
We pause in a small clearing. I raise my hands. Everyone stops. They’re panting. Sweaty. Silent. Eyes bright.
It’s… intense.
Like too intense.
Like maybe the crawling worked?
“I… okay,” I say, standing slowly, wiping my palms on my robe. “That concludes our primal ground movement. You’ve all done very well.”
They don’t move at first.
Just crouch, waiting.
Like they want something more.
My voice cracks a little as I say, “We’ll transition now into nest-building and reflective stillness.”
Still they stare.
And it hits me.
They are actually in it.
Five grown men, covered in leaves and sweat and sincerity, waiting to build spiritual nests like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
I swallow.
Smile.
“And remember,” I say softly, “No one ever healed without getting a little dirty first.”
And Jax, without missing a beat, grins back at me. “Don’t worry, Bliss. We’re just getting started.”