Chapter Ten
The Sacred Act of Losing Your Shit in the Forest
There is something deeply surreal about watching five grown men crawl around the forest, gathering moss and bark and twigs like emotionally repressed squirrels on a healing pilgrimage.
“This part,” I say softly, gesturing with a handcrafted stick I am now referring to as the Staff of Embodied Return, “Is about intentional construction.”
They look up from their scattered piles of nature like wide-eyed forest orphans mid-enlightenment.
“As you build your nest,” I continue, trying very hard to keep my voice calm and my thighs un-clenched, “You are symbolically creating a space for your inner cub to rest. To be seen. To be held.”
Jax raises an eyebrow. “You mean like… a fort.”
“No,” I say. “A sacred enclosure of safety and rebirth.”
He shrugs. “Sounds like a fort.”
I press my lips together and resist the urge to stab him gently with the staff.
But then he turns around and starts building. And not just throwing sticks into a pile like I expected, no, he’s shaping it. Placing bark with intention. Using leaves like lining. His brow furrowed, jaw tight, like he’s concentrating really hard on pretending this isn’t working when it’s totally working.
Asher is humming while he builds. He’s layered ferns into a gentle cradle shape and is currently whispering affirmations to a pinecone. I have no notes. He’s thriving.
Miles is building with the precision of someone who once interned with a Scandinavian design firm. His nest has corners. And structural integrity.
Seb’s is just a pile. But it’s a stoic pile. A manly, emotionally heavy pile. It says, “I’ve been through some things. But this moss gets me.”
And Jonah…
I blink.
Jonah is building two nests. Side by side. Mirrored. Symmetrical. Not touching, but close. Close enough to share warmth.
My breath catches in my throat, and I immediately pretend to be very interested in a nearby stump.
Do not project.
Do not assign meaning to forest intimacy.
Do not write an entire enemies-to-lovers arc in your head about a man who builds you an unspoken nest of symbolic belonging.
He doesn’t even look at me. But he places a smooth river stone between them, right in the center. Balanced. Intentional.
My entire body lights up like a sage bundle doused in gasoline.
I move to the edge of the clearing, Staff of Embodied Return held like a crutch, and try to breathe.
“Take your time,” I say. “Let your nest reveal itself. This is not about perfection. It’s about presence.”
Jax glances up at me then. “Bliss,” he says, voice too casual. “Just checking, are we supposed to, like, lay in them when we’re done?”
“Yes,” I say before thinking.
He grins. “Cool.” And proceeds to lie down in his nest. His shirt rides up. Leaves cling to his abs like they’re blessed.
I might combust.
Then one by one, they follow.
Miles folds himself in with the grace of a monk. Asher immediately curls up like a very well-adjusted emotional fox. Seb lies down flat, arms crossed like he’s prepared to meet the void.
Jonah? He settles into one nest. Gently. Like he’s waiting.
The second one, empty. Waiting too.
I cross my arms, pulse pounding, brain screaming, “Don’t you dare lie down with him. Don’t you dare become the lynx mate of his forest wolf cub. You are the leader. The vessel. The robe-wearing authority figure.”
“Are we supposed to reflect in silence now?” Asher asks quietly.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Reflect. Rest. Whatever feels right.”
They all close their eyes.
The forest hushes.
And I stand there, barefoot in the leaves, watching them breathe, sweat, and exhale their inner children into leaf cradles like I didn’t make this all up with a glue stick and desperation.
And yet…
It’s working.
They’re healing.
And I might be falling.
Not in love. Not yet.
But into something.
Something that smells like pine needles and poor decisions and the overwhelming weight of being looked at like you might be someone’s safe place.
Even if they never say it out loud.
After a long break that includes spiritual refueling via pizza with strategically selected toppings: mushrooms for grounding, olives for inner wisdom, and pepperoni because I’m not a monster, we reconvene at the center of the clearing for the final ritual of the day: the Howl of Vulnerable Reclamation?.
A sacred scream.
A release of inhibition.
A group vocal exorcism I absolutely stole from a sound bath video on TikTok and rebranded as a transformational auditory cleansing ceremony.
I stand in the middle, the Staff of Embodied Return in one hand, a handmade chime in the other, and every one of them, five men, wild-eyed and dirt-smeared, fresh from nest-building and emotional unclenching, forms a loose circle around me.
They are glowing. Literally. Damp with sweat and sunlight, leaves in their hair, some shirtless (because of course), and all of them so grounded in their bodies it’s actually starting to hurt me a little.
This was supposed to be a joke.
And now I’m the one who feels like howling.
“Okay,” I say, voice warbling slightly from overstimulation and spiritual confusion. “This is the final step in our rewilding. The vocal release. The reclaiming of your inner voice. The howl.”
I hold the chime high.
“Let it come from your belly,” I say. “From your past. From the part of you that needed to scream but was told to be quiet. From your inner cub, wild and sacred.”
They nod.
Why are they all nodding?
Why are they so in it?
Jonah steps forward first. Of course he does.
He raises his face to the sky, eyes closed, jaw set, and lets out a low, rising sound that vibrates in my sternum. It’s not a howl. Not at first. It’s more like a hum. A rumble. Then it grows into something longer, deeper, richer, and by the time it peaks, head tilted back, throat open, I’m clenching muscles I forgot I had.
I think I black out for half a second.
Then Jax joins in.
Loud. Sharp. Unapologetic. Like it’s a challenge and a confession at once.
Seb follows, low, guttural, soft around the edges. Like thunder muffled by trees.
Then Asher, sweet, wobbly, but so earnest it makes my chest ache. He actually holds a hand to his heart when he does it.
Miles waits until everyone else has gone.
And then, finally, lifts his head and lets out a short, precise, absolutely perfect howl that somehow manages to sound condescending and cathartic at the same time.
They stand there after, breathing hard. Not looking at each other. Not moving.
I forgot to breathe somewhere in the middle of all that and now I’m lightheaded and possibly aroused and maybe also crying?
Then Asher turns to me, eyes glowing. “What about you?”
I blink. “What?”
“You haven’t howled yet,” he says. “Don’t you want to?”
They’re all looking at me. Expectant. Open.
Five emotionally awakened kneepad-wearing forest princes waiting for my wildness.
I hesitate, close my eyes, lift my face to the sky, and let out the weirdest, loudest, most unexpected sound of my entire life.
It’s not pretty. It’s not graceful.
It is raw. It’s a yell, a cry, a laugh, a scream. It’s a noise that belongs to all the versions of me that have never been taken seriously, who’ve been too weird or too much or too wild to fit.
It tears out of me like I’ve been holding it in since birth.
And when it’s over, I drop the chime.
And they all just… stare. Mouths parted. Eyes wide.
Jax actually whispers, “Holy shit.”
Asher looks like he might cry again.
Seb gives me a single nod, like he respects me now on a primal level.
Miles blinks once and mutters something about auditory somatic response.
Jonah smiles. Not wide. Not smug. Just the faintest, faintest upward tilt of his mouth, like he’s seeing something he already suspected was true.
And then Asher claps. “Hell yes!” he shouts. “That was so powerful! I felt that in my root chakra and my feelings!”
And just like that, the moment breaks.
They’re laughing, shaking out their limbs, stretching their backs, talking over each other about how it felt, how weirdly good it was, how light they feel now.
And I just stand there, heart pounding, throat raw, robe slightly askew.
Wondering how on earth I became the woman whose fake spiritual retreat has now actually awakened the wolf pack of my deepest, most chaotic desires.
And how I’m supposed to survive the rest of this week.
After the final howl echoes into the trees and someone, probably Asher, declares he feels “spiritually exfoliated,” we gather around the campfire for our Post-Howl Reflection Circle?.
There’s no fire, just a few ethically-sourced candles in mason jars and a bundle of sage smoldering on a log like the ghost of a disappointed aromatherapist. But the mood is right.
They sit around me in a loose circle, dirt-smudged and breath-warm, all in varying degrees of shirtlessness and serenity.
I lower the Staff of Embodied Return and speak softly.
“This is your space to reflect. What rose up for you during the howl? During your nesting? During the… primal crawling?”
There’s a beat of silence.
And then Jax leans back on his elbows, eyes on the trees. “I forgot what it feels like to make noise without expecting someone to shut me up.”
The group is quiet.
Even Miles glances at him like he didn’t expect that to come out of Jax Riot’s mouth.
“Same,” Asher murmurs. “I always felt like being loud made people uncomfortable. But today, it just felt… okay. Like the forest could handle it.”
“You know what else helped?” Jax adds. “The knee pads.”
Asher perks up instantly. “Right?! I thought people would think they were too much, but honestly? They changed the whole experience.”
“They’re very well made,” Miles says, adjusting his strap slightly. “I respect the craftsmanship.”
Seb grunts. Which is Seb-speak for “Yeah, I liked them too but I’ll never admit that out loud.”
I watch them talk, something warm blooming in my chest. This is the moment. The one I never saw coming.
Not just the emotional honesty, but the camaraderie. The way Jax doesn’t mock Asher, and Asher doesn’t apologize for caring. The way Miles is still Miles, but he’s participating. The way Seb hasn’t bolted. And the way Jonah…
Jonah’s watching them all. Silent.
But I can see the shift in his posture. The slight lean toward the group. The way his arms aren’t crossed for once. He hasn’t said anything yet, but I can feel it, he’s not just analyzing anymore. He’s in it.
Asher glances at me, eyes bright. “What about you, Bliss? What did you feel during your howl?”
I blink. Panic flutters under my ribs.
“Oh, you know,” I say. “Just… a lot. Some grief. Some old junk. Possibly a minor vocal injury.”
Jonah’s eyes are on me now. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t speak. Just watches. Like he’s heard something in my howl that I didn’t mean to give away.
I clear my throat. “Anyway. Thank you all for showing up today. For yourselves. For each other. And for your cubs.”
They nod. A few quiet smiles pass between them.
I think Jax fist bumps Seb, which should probably be illegal.
And then Asher, completely sincere, says, “We should do a group hug.”
Miles mutters, “We should not.”
But it’s too late. Asher is up. Arms out.
And one by one, begrudging, awkward, but real, they stand. Move in. Closer.
Until I’m standing in the middle of five emotionally recalibrated, nature-scented men in a very real, very warm, very overwhelming group hug.
I’m not crying.
I’m not.
But my inner cub is definitely making weird little whimpering noises and possibly imprinting on someone’s pectoral muscle.
“I’m proud of you,” I murmur, crushed somewhere between Jax’s bicep and Asher’s joy aura. “You’ve all been incredibly brave. Tomorrow…” I pause. Dramatic. Sacred. “…we enter Sacred Stillness in the Root Chakra Lounge?.”
Asher gasps like I just announced enlightenment.
Miles says, “I have no idea what that means, and I already dread it.”
Jax grins. “Sounds sexy.”
Seb grunts again. He might be speaking wolf now. Hard to say.
And Jonah leans in just enough to make me feel it and says, low and lethal, “Stillness can be the most dangerous thing.”
I immediately forget how to breathe.
I have created a monster.
Or five of them.
And I’m pretty sure they’re all mine.