Stung - By Bethany Wiggins Page 0,26

me, Botard?”

He runs his fingers over his scruffy chin and studies me. “No. I’d be pretty snarky if I smelled like you. And I bet you’re dying to brush your teeth.”

I run my tongue over my disgusting teeth and glower.

He lifts his hands. “Don’t look so ornery. The smell of the tunnels isn’t easy to wash away.” His face softens and the sides of his mouth twitch. “It’s not you that stinks. It’s your pants. They are pretty … disgusting.”

“I know. My clothes were clean. These pants were Arrin’s. She told me we had to trade clothes so that I looked—and smelled—like a Fec. They’re too small.”

“Yeah. They looked really tight when I dressed you last night.”

My eyes grow wide. “You what me last night?”

Bowen’s smile deepens and he shrugs. “Someone had to dress you. I’m the only one who dares to stand within arm’s reach, let alone touch you. So I put a shirt on you. No biggie. It’s not like you were naked.”

If my hands weren’t cuffed, I would pull the sleeping bag up over my burning face. Instead I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Hey, kid,” Bowen says. I look at him from under my lashes. His face is hard again, not even the memory of a smile dancing in his green eyes. “I’m going to release your legs, but don’t try anything. Just because you seem harmless doesn’t mean I’ll hesitate to kill you if you make one wrong move.”

I swallow and nod. The cuffs on my legs release, and I bend my knees with a groan of relief. Bowen points the remote at me.

“Don’t move until I get out,” he says, eyes like steel. I freeze. Once he’s crawled from the tent, I follow. Slowly, awkwardly—my wrists are still melded together, my body aches, and my legs feel like an awkward mixture of rubber and lead. I flinch against the blazing morning sun just as four pairs of booted feet surround me.

“At ease, men,” Bowen says with a weary sigh. “In fact, why don’t you take the morning off?”

“You don’t want an armed guard?” a deep voice asks as I try to stand. A gun jabs against my shoulder, men snicker, and I fall forward. Warm hands grab my biceps and heave me to my feet before I have a chance to crash to the ground. Bowen. But unlike yesterday, when he practically wrenched my shoulder from its socket, there’s gentleness in his touch. He holds on to me a little longer today, making sure I’ve found my balance before removing his hands.

“I’m not going unarmed,” he says. “I’ll have my rifle, my Taser, and the electromagnetic cuffs. I’ll just go without the armed guard.”

There is a collective gasp from the men pointing guns at me. “But he’s a Ten,” Tommy states, swinging the barrel of his rifle toward me.

Bowen’s wrist intercepts the rifle a split second before it would have collided with the side of my face. “Yeah. Tell me something I don’t know, Tommy.”

“A Ten, man. You turn your back for one sec and you’re dead! Remember what happened to Charlie last year? I don’t want to lose my best friend that way!”

Bowen shoves Tommy’s rifle away and lets his gaze travel slowly over me. “I’ve been watching him, and he doesn’t have a single symptom. If I see the slightest change, anything at all, I’ll call you over.”

“But, Bowen—”

“If the kid was going to kill me, I’d already be dead,” he growls, glaring into Tommy’s eyes.

Tommy is bigger, older, and looks twice as mean as Bowen, with muscles that bulge and gleam beneath his skin. He glares and says, “Yes, sir. But if you die, I’ll never forgive you. Come on, guys.”

The guards walk stiffly away.

Bowen guides me to a tent—the only tent near mine, secluded from the rest of the camp. “Go in,” he orders, remote pointing at me. I duck into the tent and he follows. “Sit in the corner.” I do, right beside a guitar.

Without thinking, I swish my fingers over the strings. It’s been recently tuned. And polished to a high shine. I look at Bowen, then at the callused tips of his fingers, and understanding sinks in.

He’s digging through a black backpack when I say, “You’re the one who was playing on the night I came to camp.”

His hands pause, and he looks up at me and nods.

“You were playing my favorite song. Beethoven’s Seventh.”

“You played it at least a thousand times before everything changed. The tune is sort