Dawn had finally arrived, bringing with it a blessed silence as most vampire competitors had retired to their daytime quarters for meetings, strategy sessions, or blood meals. The tournament grounds had entered their quieter phase, with only essential staff moving about. Nathaniel sat at the ornate vanity in her private chambers, listening for any sounds in the corridor outside. The Crimson Games pavilions were designed with thick walls and substantial distances between competitors' chambers—ostensibly for privacy, though Nathaniel suspected it was equally to prevent assassination attempts between rival houses.

  She closed her eyes, counting to one hundred as she always did, ensuring absolute solitude before these precious moments could begin.

  When she was certain no one would disturb her, Nathaniel's fingers moved to unwrap the binding across her chest. The strips of linen—originally stolen from the medical supplies during her journey to the tournament—had left angry red marks against her skin. Unlike the finely crafted garments she'd grown up wearing, these crude bandages caused constant discomfort, digging into her ribs and restricting her breathing. She had contempted seeking out a discrete seamstress to create something more bearable, but the risk of discovery had seemed too great.e.

  As the st strip fell away, she felt immediate relief—the constant pressure against her ribs finally released. Even though vampires didn't need to breathe, the physical constriction was a constant discomfort, a reminder of her disguise that never fully left her awareness. The simple pleasure of unrestricted breathing was something she'd never appreciated before this masquerade began.

  "A few hours," she whispered to herself, the ornate clock on the mantle her silent conspirator. "Just a little time to be..."

  To be what, exactly? The question lingered as she reached for the hidden compartment beneath the false bottom of her traveling chest. From this secret space, she withdrew three treasured items: a silver-backed hairbrush with mother-of-pearl iny, a delicate silver bracelet recently purchased from a marketpce vendor, and soft leather slippers designed for dancing.

  These three objects—her private rebellion—were all she allowed herself.

  Nathaniel removed the tight leather tie that kept her copper-red hair secured in the masculine style she'd adopted. The vibrant waves fell to just below her shoulders, not the mid-back length she'd once maintained in her father's court but longer than appropriate for the nobleman she pretended to be. She had trimmed it herself before the tournament, carefully measuring to ensure it could still be styled masculinely while preserving as much length as possible.

  With reverent care, she lifted the silver-backed brush, running her fingers over the mother-of-pearl iny. It had belonged to one of her father's previous consorts—a vampire noblewoman who had shown kindness to Natalia before being banished from court after falling from Duke Hargrove's favor. The Duke had ordered all the woman's possessions destroyed, ciming they "contaminated the household with progressive sentiments," but Natalia had secretly saved this one item.

  Nathaniel began to brush her hair in long, flowing strokes, so different from the perfunctory styling she performed as part of her masculine routine. The sensation of the bristles against her scalp, the gentle pull as the brush moved through waves of copper, brought back memories of nights in the consort's chambers, watching as servants prepared the noblewoman for evening gatherings.

  "One hundred strokes for shine," the woman used to say, smiling at the young Natalia in the mirror's reflection.

  Nathaniel counted silently, each stroke a small act of rebellion against her father's control. By the fiftieth stroke, she had closed her eyes, losing herself in the rhythmic motion and the memories it evoked.

  When she finally set the brush down, her hair gleamed in the candlelight. With practiced fingers, she pited a small section at her temple—a feminine style her mother had often worn, one that would never be permitted in Orlov's court for someone her age. Such braids were reserved for young girls or matrons, never for unmarried noble daughters who were to be dispyed as perfect marriage prospects.

  Next came the gold bracelet, a delicate thing with intricate filigree work she'd purchased from a jeweler in the tournament marketpce. She had approached the stall ostensibly looking for a gift, asking the merchant to wrap it eborately "for a dy friend." The lie had come easily, though the shame that followed hadn't. Each deception, necessary though it might be, felt like another small fracture in her sense of self.

  But as she csped the bracelet around her wrist, that shame dissolved. The weight of the gold against her skin, so different from the heavy masculine rings and cufflinks of her Nathaniel persona, felt inexplicably right. She turned her wrist, watching the metal catch the light, marveling at how something so small could contain such power.

  "This too is me," she whispered to her reflection, the admission both terrifying and liberating.

  Finally, she reached for the dancing slippers. These had been the most difficult to obtain—commissioned through three different intermediaries, each thinking they were part of an eborate courtship ritual rather than a personal indulgence. In Orlov's court, noble daughters learned formal dances as part of their education, but only the approved, stately movements suitable for ceremonial functions. The dances Natalia had truly yearned for—the fluid, expressive forms she'd glimpsed in forbidden performances—were considered corrupting influences, particurly those from progressive territories.

  She slid the supple leather onto her feet, relishing their perfect fit. She had memorized the measurements from her regur boots, adding the slight adjustments needed for the different style. Standing before the full-length mirror, she began the opening positions of the Moonlight Sequence, a dance traditionally performed only by those from progressive territories.

  Natalia had never been formally taught these movements. She had learned them in fragments, watching from hidden alcoves during rare diplomatic visits, studying the dancers with an intensity that burned each gesture into her memory. For years she had practiced in secret, piecing together the complete dance through observation and instinct.

  Now, in the privacy of her chambers, she performed the sequence with a grace that belied her ck of formal training. Arms extending in fluid arcs, body turning with controlled precision, feet gliding across the floor in patterns that spoke of freedom and choice rather than rigid tradition.

  She lost herself in the movement, forgetting for precious moments the tournament, her father, the constant vigince required by her disguise. Her body remembered joy it had never been permitted to express.

  In midstep, a sharp knock shattered her sanctuary.

  "Lord Nathaniel?" called a voice—one of the tournament stewards. "Urgent message regarding tomorrow's trial."

  Her heart pounding with more than exertion, Nathaniel froze. The voice came again, more insistent.

  "Lord Nathaniel? I've been instructed to deliver this directly."

  "A moment," she called back, deepening her voice with practiced ease, though she heard the slight waver in her tone.

  With frantic efficiency born of fear, she unced the slippers, uncsped the bracelet, and unpited her hair. The binding went back on with painful haste, hooks catching skin as she rushed. A quick brush transformed her hair back to its masculine style, and she threw on her formal jacket, checking the mirror once more for any betraying signs.

  The woman who had danced with such freedom moments before vanished, repced by Lord Nathaniel Hargrove, composed and controlled.

  Only then did she open the door, accepting the sealed message with the casual confidence expected of a noble son.