The Lycan King’s Mark (Nevara) by Tiffanie L. Campbell novel Chapter 40

CHAPTER 40 – Dressing Room Politics

Nevara

The moment we stepped into the boutique, I felt immediately… out of my depth.

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It was quiet in here. Luxurious. Draped in muted lighting and soft classical music that played from

nowhere. Mannequins posed like royalty in the windows–gowns that glittered like starlight, others as dark

and sharp as sin. Satin, tulle, velvet. Tuxedos lined one wall. Shelves of heels glittered along the other.

This wasn’t shopping. This was costume prep for a life I wasn’t entirely sure I belonged in.

I walked a slow circle, trailing my fingers over a black gown that felt like it likely cost more than my first

car.

“Okay,” I finally admitted, turning back to Thoren. “I’m gonna need your help. I have no idea what I’m supposed to be grabbing. Not every formal event is created equal, and I don’t know what I’m preparing for.

n

He smirked, arms crossing as he stepped toward me. “Yeah, that’s the thing with Michelle. No telling. Could be a royal gala. Could be a masquerade. Could be some charity event for orphaned possums in top

hats.”

I blinked. “Is that… something she’s done before?”

“Not yet,” he said. “But she’s mentioned it. Twice.”

I laughed. “Great. So… what then?”

“We grab a couple cocktail dresses,” he said, already pulling a deep emerald one from the rack. “A couple elegant gowns. Maybe something a little wild just in case. That should cover it.”

“And shoes?”

He gave me a solemn nod. “And shoes. May the gods help us all.”

By the time we made it to the fitting rooms, I had six dresses, two pairs of heels, and what looked like a beaded cape that screamed drama even on the hanger. I slipped into one of the dressing stalls, and

Thoren plopped himself right in the waiting chair directly outside.

It faced the dressing room door.

“Now,” he said, leaning back with a smug smile, “you have to show me every single one. I’m the final judge.

”

I snorted. “I thought you said other people’s opinions are none of my business?”

“Correction,” he said, lifting a finger. “Other people who have nothing to do with your life… their opinions. don’t matter. Mine, however-” He grinned, slow and wicked. “Mine is very important.”

I rolled my eyes and turned to go inside, only for his hand to come down lightly–unexpectedly–on my

CHAPTER 40- Dressing Room Politics

backside.

It wasn’t hard.

Barely more than a tap.

But it still made me jump a little, breath catching as I looked over my shoulder at him.

His eyes went wide.

25 Points

Like he hadn’t meant to do it. Like his hand had moved of its own accord. He blinked once, twice–then

offered the tiniest shrug of sheepish guilt.

“Didn’t… plan that,” he said under his breath.

I narrowed my eyes at him, but there was no fire in it. Only heat. My cheeks flushed. My chest hummed.

The first dress I tried on was a deep sapphire blue–fitted through the waist, then flaring gently at the

knees with just enough shimmer to catch the light.

I stared at myself in the mirror for a beat too long.

It was beautiful. Not something I would’ve picked for myself normally, but now that it was on… it felt like

confidence in fabric form.

Still, stepping out of the dressing room door with it on? That took effort.

Thoren looked up the second he heard the latch click.

His gaze swept over me once–then again slower. A low whistle slipped from between his teeth.

“Yep,” he said, without missing a beat. “We’re getting that one for sure.”

A laugh burst from me, tension breaking.

I ducked back into the stall, heart a little lighter. Okay… so that was fun.

The second dress was shorter. Sleek black satin with thin straps and a high slit up the leg. I stepped out

with a little less hesitation this time, holding my head a bit higher.

Thoren tilted his head, considering.

“How do you feel in it?” he asked.

I turned slightly, watching my reflection. “I like it… I think. But you?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “I could take it or leave it.”

I nodded once. “Then I should probably just leave it.”

As I stepped back into the room, I caught myself frowning.

Did I really just choose not to buy a dress because he wasn’t impressed by it?

Am I… trying to impress him?

< CHAPTER 40 – Dressing Room Politics

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I didn’t have time to answer that before the third dress was on. This one was pure romance–soft

champagne fabric, fitted bodice with floral lace, off–the–shoulder sleeves. It made me feel like I should be

dancing barefoot in a candlelit ballroom.

And that confidence showed when I opened the door. This time, I twirled.

Thoren’s reaction was immediate.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together like he was trying not to reach

out.

“Yes,” he said, voice low and certain. “A thousand times yes.”

The warmth that spread through me wasn’t just about the compliment. It was the way he said it. Like he

saw me–not just the dress.

I ducked back inside, cheeks warm, stomach fluttering.

The fourth dress was… a risk. Emerald green, but with strange cutouts and a texture that looked better on

the hanger than on my body.

I stepped out anyway. “I thought this one was going to look better on-”

“On fire?” he interrupted instantly. “Because that’s the only way that thing is getting an upgrade.”

I giggled, unable to stop the snort that followed.

“That’s gonna be a no from me, dawg,” he said, shaking his head.

“Agreed,” I said, already turning back. “Fashion fail.”

The fifth dress was the one I had been unsure about from the start. Blood red. Strappy. Dangerously low in the back. I managed to get it most of the way on–but the zipper stuck halfway.

I peeked my head out of the door.

“Can you… help me? I can’t quite get the zipper.”

He stood without hesitation and stepped inside.

I turned around, placing one hand at the base of my spine where the zipper ended–right at the top of my

ass.

Thoren’s fingers found the pull, slow and steady.

The zipper whispered upward inch by inch, the sound deafening in the silence between us. When he reached the top, he didn’t stop. His hand followed the curve of my body, tracing down the line of my ribs, the dip of my waist… until both hands rested at my hips.

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