I teach yoga, not anger management for feral men with eight-packs and boundary issues.
My “Full Moon Flow” class was supposed to be harmless—stretching, breathwork, maybe a little spiritual howling for the tourists. I didn’t expect the sexy guy in the back to actually grow fur mid-downward dog. One second he’s locked in Eye of the Tiger pose, the next he’s got claws, a tail, and absolutely no pants.
Now I’ve got a real, live werewolf in my studio—hot, cranky, and very naked. He says he’s “new to this shifting thing” and needs help staying grounded. I say he should stop staring at my hips like they’re his next full moon snack.
But when he offers to repay me with... bodywork?
Let’s just say my inner zen is officially screwed.