It only took a few minutes to get dressed. I’d been slipping in and out of competition costumes for my entire adult life, and that process had always included putting on and properly affixing my wig. I’d be wearing this one for the rest of the night; it would see me through my solo, and through elimination, whatever the outcome of that happened to be. It was long enough to frame my face, with careful curls running down my back, while still being believably the hair I’d had since the start of the season. The audience would accept a certain number of extensions and styling tricks, but it was important to keep them limited enough to be believable.

The dress was less realistic. Bright red and mostly consisting of fringe, with no modesty panels to cover the wide expanses of bare skin at my right shoulder and left hip, it was the kind of thing my father used to call a “maybe.” As in “maybe you’ll get a knife under that, but I wouldn’t want to know how you managed it.” I gave my hips an experimental shake. The dress continued moving for almost two full seconds after I had stopped.

Strapping on the matching heels added four inches to my height. I stomped, making sure they were firmly on my feet, and gave myself one last, assessing look in the mirror. Valerie looked back, red-haired, red-garbed, and ready to dance with the Devil himself for the chance to own the spotlight. I smiled.

“I’m going to miss you,” I said.

Someone rapped on the wall outside my little cubby. “Five minutes, Miss Pryor,” called a voice—a wonderfully, frustratingly familiar voice.

I stuck my head out through the opening between the curtain and the wall. Dominic, who was holding a clipboard and wearing a headset, smirked at me. It was the slow expression of a man who is profoundly amused by what he sees, and it didn’t waver one bit as my eyes widened and my eyebrows climbed toward my artificial hairline.

“Five minutes,” he repeated.

“You’re here,” I said, pushing the curtain open and stepping into the changing room. It was still a bustle of activity, but none of those people were paying any attention to us: they all had their own roles to play, their own tasks to accomplish before they could take their turns upon the stage.

“I am,” he agreed, allowing his eyes to travel the length of my body. I’ve never been a tall person, but the amount of time he took made me feel longer than the Mississippi River. I blushed. His smirk widened in answer as he reached up and tapped his headset. “It struck me that no one would notice a man who seemed to have a purpose, especially since you’ve been so beautifully careful to keep me away from their cameras. This way, I’m closer and better prepared to react to whatever might happen.”

“Let’s hope whatever happens is something that can be dealt with before it eats anybody.” I reached up and touched the lock of hair that fell across my forehead, feeling suddenly self-conscious. “How do I look?”

“Like a thousand fantasies harbored by those unfortunate enough not be married to you,” said Dominic. His smirk faded into something almost rueful. “I prefer you blonde, as it happens. But you have no idea how much I want to lead you back into your dressing room and remove that deceptive rumor you enjoy pretending is a dress.”

My cheeks reddened, the color mostly hidden by my thick foundation makeup. For once, I was grateful for the pore-clogging necessity of a “game face.” “I’ll take you up on that later, when I’m not dancing for my life. Right now, I need to hit the stage.”

“Break a leg,” said Dominic, stepping out of my path.

I paused long enough to shoot him a feral grin. “If I do, it won’t be mine.”

His laughter followed me down the hall to the stage door.

Anders didn’t speak as we took our positions at the center of the darkened stage. It might have been awkward under any other circumstances, but here—me in fringe and lace, him shirtless and wearing tight satin pants, my knee pressed to his hip, his hands wrapped around my waist—it seemed only right. This was the dance floor. This was the closest thing I’d ever found to holy ground, and if this was going to be my last dance, I was going to kill it.

The music began, high bell tones warring with a sultry backbeat for dominion over the air. Anders’ hands tightened, pulling me closer, and I pressed myself against him as Karissa Noel began to sing.

As a piece, “Corrupt” was about the singer leading her subject astray, wooing him away from the path of righteousness he’d always tried to pursue. It was hard to listen to it without thinking of Dominic, and the way I’d led him away from the Covenant. Maybe he would have grown apart from their teachings without me—stranger things have happened—but it would have been disingenuous to pretend I hadn’t had anything to do with it. I was the one who’d opened his eyes. If he’d chosen to admit what he saw, that was on him. That didn’t mean I hadn’t been a part of things.