Page 8 of All Ghosts Aren’t Dead (The Forgotten #1)

BLUE

B lue…

Baby…

Sweetheart…

Samuel’s voice kept echoing, his words dancing around my brain and pooling in my bloodstream in a way that made my bones feel all melty.

I think I missed him, but I couldn’t be sure. Longing was an emotion for sinners, and I’d never enjoyed anything enough to wish for it to come back.

I’d touched him… barely. My fingertips only grazed his kneecap, but I liked the warmth I felt through the rough fabric.

It was real.

Human.

I didn’t know how to be human.

Not really.

Father had said it was a privilege, something to be earned, and until the angels came to fix me, I was nothing but a sin wrapped in skin.

A vessel for punishment.

Samuel made me wonder if maybe Father was wrong and there wasn’t just one way to be human.

I wasn’t sure it made any sense, but sometimes I felt so much I thought my body might break from it.

The hallway outside my bedroom was warm, touched by soft, yellow light.

I kept one hand on the wall as I walked its length, tracing the edges of each panel like they might all disappear if I didn’t mark them.

Voices drifted from the bottom of the staircase, rising and falling without any pattern. There was laughter—the joyous kind I rarely heard—and someone was humming a song terribly off-key.

I liked it, though I wasn’t sure I understood it.

They weren’t the sharp, pulse-racing sounds of violence and cruelty I’d thought would be trapped in here—a house where boys were built into killers.

Then again… the church hadn’t sounded like a place that carved scripture into skin.

Lying is wrong… but beauty lied all the time.

The staircase made a low, creaking sound as I moved downward. Simon said over a dozen people lived in this house, but I hadn’t seen a soul, not even a shadow.

My feet touched down on the landing, and I followed the ugly, tasseled rug to the kitchen Simon had shown me the night before.

It was always open.

I could just… walk right in whenever I was hungry.

“You don’t have to earn the right to eat.”

I hovered in the wide, wooden doorway. Light spilled across the floor and touched the tips of my toes.

Much like my bedroom, the kitchen was decorated in deep, earthy colors and quiet tones. Shades of green lined the cabinets, and copper pots hung above a large wooden island. It was scarred with use and lined with mismatched stools.

There were shelves with too many mugs, and plants were everywhere. Some were in pots, and others dangled from hooks with vines long enough to tickle the floor.

It didn’t feel like a school for violence, it felt like a home, and I think maybe somebody tried really hard to make it that way.

Simon sat cross-legged in the center of the counter, his sweater pulled over his hands as he held a mug of something hot enough to steam. His face wrinkled when he laughed, lips tugging upward as he shook his head at a boy who’d been tossing grapes into his mouth.

The boy’s hair was black, a perfect opposite to mine, and when it moved, I saw the cigarette he had tucked behind his ear. The next grape he tossed hit him in the center of the forehead, then fell to the floor with a sad, wet plop .

It made me laugh, and the sound surprised me so much I slapped my hand over my mouth to catch it.

Too late.

Simon’s chin lifted and turned in my direction. He shifted a little on the counter, his sleeves falling past his knuckles.

“Good morning,” he said, and used his mug to gesture to a stove. “There are eggs left, and bread for the toaster.”

My socks slipped against the floor when I stepped over the threshold and moved deeper into the room.

The boy with the grapes grinned wide enough for his eyes to crinkle at the corners.

“I’m Bay.” Lifting his hand, he wiggled his fingers at me. “Gymnast. Botanist. Occasional murderer and constant chaos chaser.”

Oh.

“I’m Blue.” I glanced down at my feet. “I—I’m not really sure what I am yet.”

Bay’s chest moved with a silent chuckle, and then he stepped closer to me, dipping his chin and whispering like we were sharing a secret.

Except he wasn’t all that great at it, because his voice seemed to echo off all the pots and pans.

“That’s Rune,” he said, gesturing with a jerk of his thumb. “He’s grouchy as fuck and loves to light shit on fire.”

Rune grunted and stared at me with heavy-lidded eyes and a flat mouth. He sat on the edge of a windowsill, legs kicked out in front of him. The hem of his hood brushed the lines in his forehead and the tops of his dark eyebrows.

Silver rings lined each of his fingers, and I only noticed because he started popping each one of his knuckles—slow and measured. Each crack sent a shiver down my spine.

He looked like he’d been born in smoke—all sharp bones and olive skin, burn scars half-hidden beneath the zipper of his sweatshirt.

“Hi,” I said, and then… nothing.

I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to keep speaking or what I’d even say if I did.

Nice to meet you.

Your rings are cool.

Please don’t light me on fire.

I felt the familiar hot rush of panic flood my bloodstream before another voice spoke instead—low and even.

“Hey.”

I found him seated at the far end of the table, eyes sharp and back straight. His skin was deep brown, smooth except for a faint scar along his jaw—a lot like the ones I had.

He was dressed in pressed slacks and a soft sweater rolled at the cuffs. It reminded me of the men who attended church, the ones who delivered sermons and sang in the choir, but this boy looked better somehow.

Kinder.

Even if his voice didn’t sound like it.

A book lay open beside his plate, face-down to hold the page. It was just… sitting there, like it wasn’t dangerous.

Like it wasn’t meant to judge, test, or burn.

I didn’t understand his composure, his calm, while sitting so close to something so powerful and unforgiving.

“That’s Miller,” Bay said, flicking a grape at him. “Dude’s a genius.”

Miller caught it with one hand and rolled it between his fingers.

“Genius. Chemist. Degenerate son of a corrupt politician.” He popped the fruit in his mouth and chewed. “Probably why they keep me around.”

“Please.” Bay scoffed. “They keep you around ’cause you’re one bad mood away from building a bomb out of toothpaste and string cheese.”

Miller raised an eyebrow. “You’re not wrong.”

I couldn’t tell if they were joking.

Simon swung his legs off the counter and hopped down. His hair brushed his shoulders as he walked toward the stove, gently nudging me with his elbow.

“Eat something,” he said, but it didn’t sound like an order. It didn’t even sound like a rule. They were just… words. Careful, encouraging words without a trace of cruelty or hidden harm.

They made my belly feel warm.

“Ah, Simon,” Bay spoke from the corner of his mouth. “Our unofficial den mother. Equal parts cinnamon roll and trauma response.”

Simon gave him a long look over his mug and took a sip of whatever was inside.

“ He’s a… pastry?”

It was a nickname. It had to be. It wouldn’t make sense otherwise, but I hadn’t had a lot of experience with nicknames.

Not kind ones, anyway.

“No, sweetheart,” Bay laughed and placed a hand on my shoulder. His fingernails were painted purple. “It just means he’s sugary sweet—too good for the rest of us, you know?”

Oh.

“Except he’s got trauma with a capital T. Sunshine over there is more fucked up than all of us, but don’t ask him about his past ’cause he won’t tell you a goddamn thing.”

“Is my nickname sweetheart?”

Is that why Samuel called me that?

Bay squeezed my shoulder. “Nah, I just haven’t known you long enough to give you one yet.”

“Give him twenty minutes to think,” Rune grunted, dropping down from the windowsill. His boots hit the floor with a hard clap. “If he can shut up for that long.”

Bay raised a finger in the air. “Fuck you, firestarter.”

Miller laughed under his breath.

“Blue.” Simon moved, setting a plate on the edge of the counter closest to me. It was piled with scrambled eggs and buttered toast cut into triangles. “Eat, please.”

My cheeks went warm, and I couldn’t look at him when I whispered, “Thank you.”

I didn’t think I was expected to kneel, not here, so I reached for the fork Simon placed on a napkin.

“So!” I flinched when Bay flung himself on the counter, his thighs right beside my plate. “Do you like sweetheart as a nickname? Is that why you asked?”

“Oh.” I fidgeted with the fork a little, letting it clank against the edge of the plate. “That’s just what Samuel called me last night.”

Silence.

It curled through the room, brushing the skin of my arms and crawling up my spine. Thick enough that I held my breath, just in case I’d done something wrong.

Bay opened his mouth and then closed it again, tilting his head. Another beat of silence passed before he asked, “He called you sweetheart?”

“Y—yes.”

Four times.

Miller set his book down. “Samuel doesn’t talk to anyone like that,” he said, voice light but eyes sharp. “Ever.”

Bay’s eyebrows shot halfway up his forehead. “Are you sure that’s what he said?”

“Yes. Is it… a bad nickname?”

My throat went tight, and I wasn’t so hungry anymore.

It couldn’t have been bad.

Samuel said I wasn’t bad.

Good boy. Good boy. Good boy.

“It’s not bad, right? He called me baby too, when I touched his knee.”

Bay choked and flung both of his arms outward so violently I rocked back on my heels.

“Holy shit,” Miller muttered.

“Is this a test?” Bay launched himself off the counter and landed in front of Simon. “Did you know about this?”

Simon didn’t answer right away, but he gave me a look that made me feel heavy. Placing his mug in the sink, he cleared his throat. “I knew he seemed different around Blue, but I didn’t know about the nickname or the touching.”

They must’ve sensed my confusion, maybe tasted it the same way Father tasted my sin.

Rune took two steps forward. “Sam doesn’t like touch. That’s why he’s always wearing those gloves.”

My breath caught.

Sam doesn’t like touch.

The words made my chest feel hollow and full all at once, and I didn’t understand it.

Not at all.

Father used to say the devil cloaked himself in affection, and that warmth was a lie designed to rot us from the inside out.

Samuel hadn’t felt like rot.

He felt… clean.

“Why would he do that?” I asked quietly. “Why would he let me touch him if he doesn’t like it?”

“I’m not sure.” Simon smiled in my direction. “But I know it’s not a bad thing.”

“Bad? Oh hell no.” Bay clapped me on the back. “This is the best fucking thing to happen since Simon stopped buying off-brand cereal. You’ve been here one night, and the unholy priest of silence is already making pet names!”

A throat cleared in the doorway. “An unholy what, Mr. Geroux?”

Bay froze, eyes going wide like a child caught with his hand in the offering plate.

Simon pivoted on his feet and stuffed his hands in his sweater like he wasn’t surprised to see him here.

Samuel.

He stood just inside the doorway, a file tucked under one arm and those black gloves covering both hands. Black shirt sleeves were rolled neatly, his curls tight, and jaw sharp.

He was so pretty.

No one said a word. Not at first.

The air in the room shifted a bit, the way it always seemed to when he was around.

I kept my lips pressed together and tried to stand as still as the other boys, but my heart was doing something strange.

Melting, I think.

My toes curled, and I really wanted to move a little closer to him. I wouldn’t even touch him. I just wanted to be near him.

His narrowed eyes searched the room, unhurried, looking at every detail before they landed on me.

Chin dipping, his lips tugged into the smallest smile.

My chest swelled.

“Is he smiling ?” Bay whispered, and Samuel took a step into the room.

“What was that, Mr. Geroux?”

“What’s a… geroux?”

“It’s my last name,” Bay grunted and batted a hand at the air in front of him. “My mother fucked a French dude.”

Oh.

Samuel’s eyes flashed to Simon. “I trust you fed him?”

“I made him a plate,” Simon replied. “He hasn’t eaten it yet.”

I hadn’t meant to ignore it.

I was just… overwhelmed.

Samuel crossed the space between us without hurry. I wasn’t sure when he’d started moving or when he got close enough that his scent touched my skin.

It was warm and clean, with something deeper beneath it—familiar in a way that made my chest ache.

He reached for the fork resting beside my plate, lifted it slowly, and held it in front of my face.

“Eat, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Or I’ll feed you.”

“Mother of God,” someone whispered, and I thought it was probably Bay.

“Did Simon explain the day’s schedule to you?”

I shook my head and took the fork from him. “But I only just got here.”

“It’s a pretty structured schedule,” Simon said, and I only glanced at him. “Once you’re here longer, we’ll tailor it more towards what suits you.”

“You’ll get the hang of it.” Miller closed his book. “It’s training with a few specialized courses and the occasional emotional ruin.”

Samuel made a sound in his throat that might’ve been a warning—or a groan.

“For sure,” Bay added, leaning in real close. “A pretty typical day, really. Breakfast, training, lunch, training, dinner, therapy, then you cry about it in the shower like every other hard-working American.”

“For fuck’s sake.” Samuel pushed his glasses to his forehead and pinched the spot between his eyes. “Go get ready for class. All of you.”

The others started filing out, grumbling and shoving each other as they left.

Samuel stayed behind.

“It’ll be a light day,” he said, softer now that it was just us. “You’ll shadow Simon. Just observe. No pressure.”

I nodded, clutching the fork like it might float away if I didn’t.

He hesitated, then added, “If you need me… I’m not hard to find.”

My chest tightened, warm and aching.

I didn’t want to need him, but I think maybe I already did.