CHAPTER 67: OOH LA LA

Kaya

"Are you sure about this?" I ask rather shyly, although there is still a tinge of hopefulness in my voice.

Samantha clicks her tongue, then proceeds to pour the contents of her closet onto her bed like a curious cat digging through her owner’s clothes.

"I know I am a big girl, but you’ve put some meat on you, too!" she exclaims, pressing one of her dresses against her shoulders. "Not so skinny anymore, so some of my old stuff might still fit you."

An awkward smile tugs at the corners of my lips while my shoulders slump just a little. I’ve been too spoiled.

Back in my first pack, I was happy with all the hand-me-downs thrown my way, but when I was with Damien...

"I know, it’s not the best option," Samantha’s voice cuts through my pathetic, quiet self-pity as if she can read my mind. "But we don’t really have much time left till the party starts, so I don’t think shopping is an option for us."

"Oh––no, I’m sorry!" I nearly jump to my feet, shaking both my hands and my head apologetically. "It’s my fault for deciding to go to the party just now, I will take whatever dress fits me––it’s no problem!"

It’s true, and I feel truly embarrassed now. I’ve been contemplating going to Magnus’s birthday party up until the last moment, and now that I’ve made a decision to go, I realize that I have absolutely nothing to wear. In the past, Damien was the one taking care of my clothes, so once again, it’s been proven to me just how helpless I am on my own.

Thankfully, Samantha was there to offer her help, and I will forever be grateful for her kindness.

"These are some really great dresses, Sam," I say with complete sincerity as I go through her collection. "You have amazing taste!"

And it’s true. I’m so used to seeing Sam in her training gear or her usual baggy clothes that I never expected her to have such an elegant, even shockingly refined sense of style when it comes to formal wear.

"Surprised?" Sam teases, nudging me playfully under the ribs. "Yeah, I used to like dressing up and going to banquets and all that girly stuff. Well, before this whole warrior responsibility kicked in and I could no longer afford to drape myself in silk and satin. I mean, look at me—these shoulders were not made for delicate fabrics."

I frown, mildly offended on her behalf. "What are you talking about? You have a killer body!"

"No, Moonchild," she shoots back with a condescending smirk, hands on her hips. "You have a killer body! Your waist is so tiny I could hold it in one hand. How are you not missing at least a rib or two, I’ll never understand."

"Yeah, well," I reply with a small, bitter smile, "I also have all these scars. They definitely don’t belong in a backless silk gown or anything that says ’fragile and flawless’."

"Don’t be silly," she flicks my forehead with a light snap before turning back to the closet. A second later, she pulls out a long, flowing blue silk dress. It has a soft corset bodice and pearl embellishments tracing over the bust, trailing up to form what appears to be off-shoulder straps. The whole thing gleams under the light like moonlight over still water.

"Goddess!" I gasp, completely stunned. "Where did you get this beauty? Have you ever worn it?"

All at once, Samantha falls silent. Her expression shifts—dimming just enough for me to realize I’ve struck a nerve. A shadow passes behind her eyes, subtle but unmistakable. I open my mouth to change the subject, to backpedal somehow, but she beats me to it. Forcing a smile, she exhales slowly, tucking away the sigh before it fully escapes.

"It was made especially for me, you know... for my Lunar Gala." Her voice is casual, but the pain beneath it is unmistakable. "But alas, it ended up being a waste of perfectly good fabric and pearls."

Then, as if brushing off her own words, she lifts the dress and holds it out to me. This time, her smile feels real—sincere, glowing with something gentler. "I think it’s perfect for you. The color, the pearls, the corset... It might have been made for me, but you? You were born to wear it."

"Sam..." I whisper, though I’m not sure what I mean to say. There’s a heaviness in my chest, a soft ache that curls around my ribs. I don’t know why her words make me so sad, but they do. And yet, I know better than to let it show. She doesn’t need my pity—and honestly? No one does.

"Oh, and if you’re still worried about your scars," Samantha continues, leaping over my expression like it never existed, "the dress has detachable sleeves."

She turns to the closet again, rummaging through the lower shelves until she pulls out a delicate bundle of fabric. "There’s a small button inside the corset that holds them in place. I asked for them because, back then, I was starting to get a little self-conscious about my bulky arms."

I smile, taking the sleeves from her with a grateful nod. "Thank you. Really."

A pause. Then I glance up. "And what about you? What are you going to wear to the party?"

"You’ll see," Samantha teases, her lips curving into a secretive grin. She winks, mischief flickering in her warm eyes as she points toward the lowest shelf inside her closet. "Pick some shoes from there and go take a shower. Then come back so I can lace up your corset and help with your hair and makeup. We don’t have all night, you know!"

"You’re even good at that?" I ask, genuinely impressed, my brows rising in awe.

Sam smirks, flicking her chin toward the cluttered dressing table with a confident tilt. "Just because I’m a badass warrior wolf doesn’t mean I’ll let that bitch Gloria—or any of those other catty mean girls—look down on me." She waves her hand dramatically. "Now go!" she urges with a playful glare as I grab a pair of heels, giggling. "Come back once you’re clean and glowing."

I obey, slipping out of the room and heading straight to the showers, where I scrub myself until my skin tingles and the steam fogs the mirror. Fruity shower gels and velvety hair products wrap around me like a second skin, washing away every ounce of doubt clinging to my bones. And when I’m done, I feel lighter, fresher, almost... new.

I return to Samantha’s room, towel-dried and hopeful, only to find her still locked away in the bathroom. Probably been in there the entire time I was gone—prepping her own transformation in secret.

"Are you ready?" Her voice finally calls from behind the door, and it’s dramatic enough to make me chuckle.

I plop onto her bed, grabbing one of the shoe boxes from the pile and tapping my fingers rhythmically on the lid like it’s a snare drum. "And now," I announce with theatrical flair, "for the very first time this evening... ladies and gentlemen, please welcome... the marvelous, the magnificent, the one and only... Samantha Tillian!"

My drumming continues as the bathroom door swings open, and Sam emerges with the slow, deliberate poise of a woman on a runway.

Whatever air I still had in my lungs vanishes. If I was in a cheerful mood before, now I’m breathless—completely frozen by the sight of her.

"You look fantastic!" I exclaim, leaping to my feet and rushing toward her.

"I know, right?" Sam breaks into laughter, her composed runway walk shattering into a giddy dance as she grabs my hands and spins us both around. "Red is so my color, don’t you think?"

"It is!" I agree without hesitation. But it’s not just the color of her dress that makes her look so breathtakingly beautiful.

Her hair is finally free from its usual braids, cascading down her back in thick, loose waves. The faint dark circles that used to sit beneath her eyes have faded, allowing the bright glow of her big blue eyes to shine through. Even the way she carries herself feels different—more poised, more confident—and that’s when it hits me.

Samantha might have been born a warrior. She might be all sharp reflexes, toned muscle, and relentless drive. But beneath the grit and the strength, she is still a female wolf. She is a woman.

"Hey, Sam, got a minute?"

My brief moment of awe shatters as Oliver knocks and barges in before either of us can respond. And the instant he steps into the room, I swear I can feel the air sizzle—the tension is so thick it could ignite.

"Wow, Sam..." he stammers, clearly taken aback by how she looks. "I mean—uh—yeah. Sorry. Clearly not a good time."

And just like that, he bolts, disappearing as quickly as he arrived.

Sam and I exchange a long, pointed glance.

"What was that all about?" she asks, genuinely puzzled.

But me? Oh, I think I know exactly what that was all about.

Ooh la la.