Stung - By Bethany Wiggins Page 0,57

if I let my guard drop, even for a second …” His cheeks flush bright pink and he takes a deep breath. “I won’t be able to keep my hands off of you.”

I walk to the bathroom and find a pair of baggy jeans, an oversize T-shirt that hangs halfway down my thighs, and the strap of fabric that binds my breasts flat against my chest. When I come out Bowen is lying on the bed beside his gun, hands behind his head, ankles crossed, staring up at the ceiling.

“I need to sleep,” he says. Without taking his eyes from the ceiling, he slides the gun across the mattress toward me. “Will you keep watch?”

I take the gun and nod, but he doesn’t see. “Yes,” I say.

“Don’t use the flashlight. The raiders will see it through the window,” he says, and his eyes slip shut. On bare feet, I walk to the short hallway beside the door and sit with my back to the wall, gun balanced between my bent knees.

Bowen sleeps, a restless sleep that makes him thrash and flinch. And when he thrashes about on the sleeping bag, it is my name he cries out. Sometimes he screams it and I cling to the gun, listening for the sound of anyone else in the hotel. Because if anyone’s around, they know we’re here now.

The sun sets and darkness creeps into the room. A crescent moon and stars illuminate the shadows, shining in through the window and casting a perfect ice-blue square over Bowen’s sleeping body. With the darkness, Bowen’s thrashing intensifies, my name spoken more often, accompanied by pleading whimpers or violent growls.

That he fears me so badly brings tears to my eyes. I hang my head, let my forehead rest on my knees, and try not to cry.

After he’s been asleep for several hours and the moonglow has moved to the far side of the room, Bowen suddenly lurches, spine taut, and screams, “Fiona! No! Stop!” He keeps screaming and thrashing, mumbling words I can’t understand.

Sick to my stomach, I set the gun on the floor and pad over to the bed. The sleeping bag is in a wadded ball beneath him, his shirt twisted around his torso.

“Bowen,” I whisper. He whimpers and gasps my name, rolling onto his side, his body curled into a protective ball. “Bowen, wake up.” I touch his damp forehead, and he flinches away from my fingers, curling even tighter into a fetal ball. I place both my hands on his cheeks. “Dreyden,” I say. His eyes flutter open and focus on my face. He grabs me, pulling me against him hard, and I wonder if he’s gong to thrust a knife into my ribs or strangle me with his bare hands.

“Fiona,” he whispers, tightening his arms around my shoulders. I freeze, my head on his chest, my body beside his, his arms anchoring me there. After a minute his heart slows beneath my ear and begins to beat at a normal rate, and his arms loosen the slightest bit. Convinced I’m not about to die, I relax into him.

“Was it bad?” I whisper, imagining myself tearing him limb from limb in his nightmare.

“Yeah. Worst nightmare I’ve ever had. Even worse than after my mom died.” His arms tighten. I spread my hand over his chest and, through his sweat-damp shirt, feel his pulse beneath my fingers.

“Did I tear your beating heart from your body?” I ask, struggling not to cry.

He lifts his head to look down at me. “What?”

“In your dream. Did I kill you and eat your heart?”

His head falls back onto the mattress and his ribs rise and fall with a deep sigh. “You tearing out my heart would have been a pleasant alternative to my nightmare.”

I cringe and bury my face against his chest. His hand moves up to my hair and he trails his fingers through it. “Fiona. Look at me.”

There’s something in his voice—I know what he’s about to say is monumental. I brace myself for bad news and look up.

“I’m not taking you to the lab.” His arms fall away, and he rolls out from under me, climbing off the bed.

“You’re not?” I ask, sitting, wondering if I heard him right.

“No. We’re going to run, you and I together. But you have to promise me one thing.”

My heart starts hammering in my chest. “What?”

“You always have my gun with you. And you always keep one bullet in the magazine. If you get caught, you use