Stung - By Bethany Wiggins Page 0,85

of the pain and agony he must be feeling—a pain he’s willing to endure to satisfy his desire to kill!”

The commentator’s right. Jonah’s shoulder muscles bulge and tremble with strain, a glossy sheen of sweat coats his skin, mingling with blood, and his arms aren’t melded together anymore. Six inches of space separate the cuffs.

Oh, my poor brother. There is nothing left of him.

My vision is turning black, everything fading from view, except Jonah, focused at the exact center of my sight. He takes a leap toward me and the female beast, and his forearms come down on either side of the female’s neck. Jonah’s cuffs, zinging with energy, wrench back together and snap around her neck just as my vision dims.

Her fingers go limp, falling from my neck and trailing over my shoulder. I gasp a breath of air, and the world reappears, accompanied by pain. Jonah, his cuffs still locked on the female’s neck, drags her away from me. In one swift move he throws her aside, reducing her to a limp pile of death.

As if seeing everything in slow motion, I blink and look back up at the glass, at the commentator pointing at the grenade and running from the pool, the crowd pushing and shoving and trampling each other to get away, at the grenade that is about to explode. I curl onto my side and cover my head, waiting for impact. A weight settles on me—Jonah—covering my aching body with his, cradling my head in his hand, his panting breath hot on my skin.

The air seems to solidify and compress, molding my skin against my bones, forcing its way into my ears and pushing the breath from my lungs. My skull squeezes my brain, and my eyeballs want to pop with the pressure. Jonah’s body mashes mine into the floor and then goes limp as the pressure in the air fades to nothing.

I open my eyes. It is raining diamonds.

Chapter 35

When I was twelve I went to an all-day pool party. I forgot sunscreen. My skin was so sunburned, I couldn’t sleep that night. My skin feels just like that now. Burned to a crisp—all the way into my lungs. Every breath fills my chest with an inferno, feels like lifting the weight of the world, and I am too tired to lift any extra weight.

Cool hands touch my brow, fiddle with my wrist. A pair of green eyes peers into mine, eyes that remind me of summer. “You’re alive!”

Stringy blond hair trails over my face as a weight is hefted from me. Now I can fill my lungs. But breathing air feels like breathing fire, and I cough and gasp.

“Fo? Fiona, can you hear me?” Bowen asks. His words are muted, as if my fingers were pressed into my ears. He frames my face with his hands and stares into my eyes. “Can you hear me?” he asks, eyes frantic.

“I hear you,” I whisper, pushing my aching body to sitting, wondering how I’m still alive. Four blood-streaked bodies are in the red-splattered pool, yet I am the one who will walk away. If I can find somewhere to go. If I can walk.

Beside me lies a still form. His skin shimmers iridescent red, every blood-covered inch coated with diamonds—glass from the ceiling. Only Jonah’s pale stringy hair gives away his identity. A tear streams down my cheek as I place a trembling hand on his bare chest. His heart beats against my palm, a weak, fast flutter.

“He’s still alive,” I say, looking at Bowen.

Bowen yanks the handgun from his belt and with trembling hands, points it at my brother’s chest. Shocked, I lean over Jonah’s body. “Don’t shoot him! He saved my life!” I say, surprised at the energy in my voice.

Bowen doesn’t waver. “Fo, he is a Level Ten. I watched him kill the other beast. There’s nothing human left in him!”

I shake my head and cringe at the pain. “He saved my life,” I whisper. “A part of my brother is still in there.”

“Would you look at that,” a voice says. The voice. The commentator. He’s standing on the side of the pool, looking down in. “The female Ten is protecting the body of the male Ten! And I thought beasts didn’t have feelings!”

Bowen glares and stands, his jaw muscles pulsing. He walks to the side of the pool and holds his hand up to the commentator. The commentator, round belly nearly popping the buttons off his white shirt, reaches down and