(FREE TO READ) Bad Moon

chapter 23; flapjacks

For hours after that, Jaylin's pulse was a hummingbird in his chest, batting at the walls of his throat every time he turned to look at Quentin, who slept with one arm over his face and the other burrowed beneath his pillow. Jaylin remembered reading somewhere that this position meant power. Power and wealth. They were definitely words that defined him, but still only two indefinite puzzle pieces on an otherwise blank canvas. There was still so much more to the enigma of Quentin Bronx.

He'd given Jaylin permission to use his laptop and then fallen asleep right beside him—face peaceful in the glow of the computer screen. Jaylin found no answers about the lichund and no information about werewolves that wasn't folklore or a pop-culture reference.

The only thing he learned at all was that Quentin furrowed his brows when he slept.

He winced occasionally in his sleep, forehead creasing like maybe he was in pain, or something else. Maybe he was angry. Maybe he was scared. Quentin was dreaming of something; he'd been making these expressions—never a sound, but faces. And the faces animating him made Jaylin nearly want to wake him from his sleep. He wanted to chase away the nightmares.

Instead, he'd press a finger to Quentin's forehead, light as feathers down the bridge of his nose. It wasn't enough to wake him, but for the third time he'd done it, Quentin's face had relaxed.

He could still feel it—their synchronized pulses. They played their tunes in harmony with one another—even as Quentin slept. Sometimes Jaylin would feel his heartbeat begin to race. Other times it was so slow, he wasn't sure it was beating at all. It was when he'd finally put the laptop down and gone to his own room that he noticed the palpitations had settled and his heartbeat returned to normal.

At four AM, he'd managed to sleep, but it felt like he'd only blinked his eyes before the mid-morning sun was slamming through the cracks in his bedroom curtains.

There was a gnawing deep within Jaylin, but it wasn't like the hunger before. It was different now—larger. Not only did his stomach ache, but his spine as well, and sitting himself up on the mattress felt like shoving a knife through the back of his ribs and twisting it like a spaghetti fork.

Once he was on his feet, Jaylin had to grip the wall to keep standing. He shoved the curtains closed, sealing the streak of light that laid on Quentin's face, then Jaylin hobbled his way out of the room, and quietly down the hall.

The manor was empty and from the hall, Jaylin could hear the soft sleeping sounds coming from each respective room. Even the maids were still asleep, so Jaylin decided he'd make the Sigvards breakfast. It was a small offering, but it was something.

Of course, Jaylin hadn't accounted for the fact that he'd never made a meal for anyone but his mother—who could hardly cook a decent one herself. He also didn't take into consideration the Sigvard's kitchen and just how many cupboards and pantries expanded across the floor and ceiling of the massive room. And never before had Jaylin seen so many pans. He didn't for the life of him understand which pan was to be used for what, so he selected one that looked closest to the kind he had at home, and scuffled to the stove top.

The stove that he didn't have a clue how to work.

By the time he'd given up, Jaylin was left with twelve pieces of charred bacon and a tower of tasteless, rubbery eggs. He'd cooked the pan too high, burned the metal and melted the bed of the spatula—and in the end there was nothing to show for it. Nothing but a waste of food that had never belonged to him to begin with, groceries and dishes he hadn't paid for.

Because this is what happens when Jaylin Maxwell actually tries, he thought to himself. He spills half a carton of milk, sets the stove top on fire. He burns the bacon, botches an entire batch of eggs. Jaylin Maxwell fucks up every time, because that's what Jaylin Maxwell's good at. He has no trade, no talent. He just fucks up.