Page 1 of Forgotten (The Soulbound #1)

Death is sitting on my ex-husband's willow tree.

Every chilly morning. Every starry night when the clouds clear. Always.

And that Death is me .

My eyes fix on a single window that stretches from the center of the house to its outeredge—a massive pane of glass framing the life I once knew. From my spot in the garden, I can see everything. His cold, gray desk. The pristine stack of papers, perfectly aligned. A neat row of picture frames lined up at the edge.

Him .

Sitting in his office, composed as ever. Back straight, expression controlled—like even the mind-numbing monotony of accounting requires a performance. As if some invisible eyes are always on him, cameras tracking his every move. Like his very existence is meant to be observed, admired, studied.

And he’s right.

Because I am watching.

Sometimes, I wonder if he can feel it—my dead gaze upon him. If the sudden stillness in his shoulders, the barely noticeable hitch in his breath, means something deep inside him stirs. Some primal instinct whispering:

You are not alone.

I want him to know.

I want him to feel it deep in his bones, to sense the way I pick him apart from my perch, stripping away the pristine layers of his perfect little life. I wait for a crack—for guilt to slip through the stiff set of his jaw, to coil beneath his neatly combed hair, to show in the slightest betrayal of his fingers as they falter on that spotless desk. Just once. All I need is one tiny sign.

But he never falters. At least not while he’s awake.

No, the cracks only show when he's fast asleep. When Jessica is curled up beside him, unaware of the monster lying next to her.

Because during the night, he is bare. The mask he wears is gone, only nightmares remain.

And he has a lot of them.

Something stirs in the room next to his office. The curtains shift, then part, and Jessica’s delicate face appears, her gaze locking onto mine.

For a brief little moment, she looks like she can see me—the mare haunting her husband. But, of course, she can’t.

Judging by the way her perfect lips press into a frown, however, she can see my companions.

Dozens of pretty little crows sitting on the willow tree.

And in a perfect Jessica fashion, she cannot let it go. A moment later, she steps into his office doorway requiring his attention. She is wrapped in silk pajamas, blonde hair cascading in effortless waves down her back. Even half-asleep, she’s flawless. Sculpted. Untouched by something as human as morning grogginess.

Back when I was alive, I didn’t think people like her were real. I always figured they spent hours perfecting themselves—waking up at dawn to do their hair and makeup, just to keep their high-and-mighty husbands happy. But it turns out my ex-husband’s new wife is just… perfect like that. No effort required.

He’s found the opposite of me.

But I guess that’s beside the point.

She plants her delicate hands on her hips and huffs, pouting just a little, molding her body just right so the waist shows. And he tips his chin up, eyes sliding from his papers to his wife. From her legs to her waist to her breasts and finally… to her face.

Once, he hated interruptions. Disruptions made him rigid. Frigid. Cold. If I spoke at the wrong time—if I so much as breathed in his carefully curated moments of peace—his displeasure wrapped around me like thorns.

But for her?

He just smiles.

Soft. Easy. Like her presence is a blessing. Like she belongs there, slipping into his world without consequence. Unbothered.

She says something—but I can’t hear her. Not from this distance.

And yet, I already know.

She’s telling him the crows are back again.

Jessica doesn’t like my crows. Thinks they’re creepy. I’ve picked up on that much. Then again, she doesn’t like anything that doesn’t fit into her picture-perfect Barbie Dreamhouse fantasy, which she loves to pretend my house is.

She’s obsessed with decorating for the seasons, scattering candles, arranging fresh flowers, always chasing the perfect shot, the perfect aesthetic. And in doing so, she’s erased everything that ever mattered to me about this house.

My grandmother’s paintings? Gone. The antique furniture, creaky with age and memory? Replaced. The tiny imperfections, the lived-in warmth, the echoes of a life that was mine—wiped away. In their place, pristine, color-coordinated vases and sterile white rugs. Expensive furniture that looks impressive but feels hollow.

Just like him. They suit each other.

But I can’t even blame her—not really. Knowing my ex-husband, he probably told her this house was his from the start, never mentioning it came with his dead ex-wife’s inheritance. Wouldn’t surprise me if he spun some elaborate lie—said the paintings were just placeholders, the antique furniture nothing more than unfortunate leftovers he hadn’t had the heart to toss yet.

He’s good at that—twisting history into something more convenient.

He’s good at a lot of things, actually—except for being a decent person. That, he sucks at. Tremendously.

I watch now as his brows pull together slightly, that familiar look settling on his face—the caretaker one. The one he only ever shows to her and his friends, never to strangers.

He pushes up from his desk and walks to the window, staring out at the willow tree again. He sees the crows, and there it is—my dead heart wakes up in my chest. Because this time, he’s bound to react, isn’t he? Anyone would.

I straighten instinctively, my pale fingers gripping the bark. The sensation is faint, almost nonexistent—like I'm not really touching anything—but that doesn’t matter. I guess I’m still a little hell-bent on feeling human now and then. And judging by the way this blackened organ inside me is hoping for some sign from him, I almost feel like one. Almost .

“Come on,” I murmur quietly to myself.

I just need something. It doesn’t have to be much. A twitch of his brow, a flicker of hesitation, a moment where he freezes, unsure of what to say or do—that would be enough. Just a split second of doubt. Proof that there’s something, anything, going on inside him.

But no.

When my ex-husband sees my crows again—just like he has nearly every day since he killed me—he blinks.

One. Slow. Thoughtful. Blink.

And then he turns away.

No hitch in his breath. No hesitation in his step. No flicker of doubt in those calculating eyes. Nothing .

Something dark coils in my chest—something old and bitter and so goddamn tired.

He murdered me, for fuck’s sake. Buried me right here, beneath this willow tree, right after he crushed my throat with his bare hands. He pressed down until the world blurred, until I was nothing but clawing fingers and fading light. Until silence swallowed me whole.

And after all that—after my body grew cold beneath the roots of my lovely willow tree—he still feels nothing.

No guilt. No weight of consequence. Not even a ghost of hesitation.

My fingers dig into the bark, breathless fury twisting through me. The crows stir above. They feel it too—the storm in me, the hunger.

I need to make him pay.

One way or another, I will carve regret into his soul so deep he’ll never claw it out.

As if on cue, one of my crows lets out a slow, deliberate caw. Then another. And another. Before long, they’re all shrieking into the morning light.

Jessica flinches, startled. Her delicate fingers clutch the silk at her chest, and for a split second—just a fraction of a moment—I see in her the thing I wanted to see in him. Fear. She doesn’t even know why she’s afraid, but she is. She can’t escape it.

Of course, it’s stupid. The crows have never hurt her. They’ve never done anything but follow me, and watch the living. But still, she’s scared. Her throat bobs, and she inches closer to him, seeking some word, some touch, some reassurance.

And he gives it to her.

My ex-husband exhales—one of those long-suffering sighs I know too well—and rests a hand at the small of her back. Comforting. Protective. A silent promise that whatever’s unsettling her will never get past him.

And God, how I hate that.

He’s the worst danger she could ever face. She just doesn’t know it yet. But whatever safety she thinks he brings, is fake.

I wish I could tell her sometimes. Just to save her from the future he’s capable of giving her.

But dead girls don’t talk.

Dead girls can only watch.

And that, I do.

The wind stirs through the tree, rustling the leaves. The crows take off, their black wings slicing through the cold morning air like a swarm of feathered blades. And then, once they’re all gone, a different, larger bird lands beside me.

A raven. One black, shiny raven with intelligent eyes and feathers ruffled at the edges.

It pins me with its gaze, staring at me just as intensely as I stare through the window of my ex-husband’s office.

“Just a minute,” I murmur to it. “Give me a couple more minutes, and I’ll go.”

The raven doesn’t move. It doesn’t seem to like my response.

“Just a moment,” I repeat.

It cocks its head, stretching its wings like it finds my lie amusing. Because that’s what it is—a lie.

I never just take a moment. I stay until something forces me to leave. And for years, that something has been Pain. That’s what I’ve named the raven approximately three years ago—because it’s a relentless, insufferable pain in my ass.

Still, I drum my fingers against the rough bark of the willow and turn back to watching them . The ones that interest me.

Jessica has already looked away from the garden. The crows are gone and so is her problem. Now, she’s just trailing her fingers along my old desk as she murmurs yet another thing to him. Maybe her mind has flitted to something trivial and fleeting, like dinner plans with their friends or the latest interior design trend she’s itching to try. Maybe it’s something about their new decor. Maybe she’s simply lonely this grey morning.

One thing is sure.

Whatever it is about, it’s something that doesn’t include me, or my past. Therefore, ironically, it’s something I like watching the most.

Waiting for his reaction to the memory of my murder is one thing, but the real thrill comes from watching his life unfold. From memorizing every single thing that’s happened to him since I died. From imagining what it would be like to climb down from my branch, walk up to the front door, knock, and wait—until he opens it and sees me.

What kind of face would he make? Would he be afraid? Would his carefully built life crumble, brick by brick, knowing I could destroy it all?

Of course, I can’t.

But I like to imagine. I'm damaged like that.

Pain knocks its beak twice against the tree bark, and I glance at him from the corner of my eye.

“Not even a minute has passed,” I tell him. “Don’t be like this.”

I want to see more of his life. To know more. To watch it unfold like a glass house and imagine what it would be like to shatter it. I know I’m being selfish, but I just… can’t stop.

Pain cocks his head, as if to say, Suit yourself . But he knows as well as I do that I’m being ridiculous. The pull is coming soon, and it’s not something I can ever escape. I can already feel it creeping in—that slow, gnawing tug at the edge of my existence.

My duty calls.

I know it’s inevitable, and yet everytime it happens I get annoyed. My time among the living is borrowed, conditional. I can stay in the living realm as long as I do my job.

You see, I lied earlier. I said I was Death, but the truth is, I’m something much less powerful than the big boss.

I’m just one of his entities. A Grim Reaper. A being neither fully gone from the human world nor truly a part of it. Stuck in limbo with a single purpose: collecting souls and ferrying them to the afterlife. And yet, instead of doing my job, instead of leaving the tree and marching off to reap the soul I should go for, I’m still sitting here, watching my ex-husband live a life that should’ve been mine.

Pain shifts closer, talons digging into the bark. It stares at me differently now. Sharper. More intense. Then, it squawks so loud it rattles inside my skull, my head throbs in protest.

“Fuck,” I hiss, pressing my fingers to my temple. “You’re such a pain.”

See? No wonder I named him that.

Still, this isn’t even the worst of it. Pain can do worse. And sure enough, he hops onto his bony little feet and jabs his beak straight into my arm.

The pain is sharp, searing. Almost real. Almost .

Many things are almost real when you’re almost real yourself.

I jerk my arm back, rubbing the phantom ache as I shoot it a glare.

“I told you. Just. One. Minute,” I repeat like a broken record.

Pain blinks at me, unimpressed.

We’ve been at this for five years now, the same routine playing out daily. I come here, sit on this goddamn tree like a lunatic, and Pain finds me when there’s a job to do. Always. If I were him, I’d be sick of my bullshit, too.

But Pain doesn’t know what it’s like—to be murdered and then watch the person you once loved just… move on.

Very few beings do.

The pull tightens—an invisible chain wrapping around my ribs, squeezing so hard I feel like I’m suffocating. I dig my nails into the bark, my spine bending backward until all I can do is stare up at the gray sky.

“Agh.” I grit my teeth and shut my eyes, bracing myself. It usually comes in waves, one stronger than the last. But this... Pain must really be sick of me sitting here, because I can't remember the last time it hit this hard right away.

“Fuck,” I choke out.

The raven croaks again, its voice clawing through my skull, splitting my brain open with one unbearable wave of suffering after another. Just when I think I can’t take it anymore, the pain lets up.

The pull vanishes as fast as it came, leaving me gasping, raw, and frayed at the edges. My grip on the bark loosens, my body tilting forward before I steady myself.

Pain settles beside me, ruffling its feathers with something eerily close to satisfaction.

“You enjoy this way too much,” I mutter, still catching my nonexistent breath. Breathing is just like grasping the bark stronger. Of course, I don’t need to. But I always forget I don’t.

The raven doesn’t answer—obviously. But the way it clicks its beak, just once, says enough.

Time to go. For real, this time. The next wave of the pull will make me wish death was the end, it’s going to wreck me so hard.

Gritting my teeth, I push off the willow tree and drop to the ground. And just as I start searching for the soul I need to collect—something unusual happens.

Something I haven’t seen in the five years I’ve been coming here.

Someone else is here.

At the edge of the garden, where the path meets the fence, a figure stands.

Tall. Dark. A silhouette blurred by distance and the early morning haze. But it’s definitely a man. There’s a shovel in his hands, and he looks pissed . I can feel the emotion rolling off him, even from here, even in my astral form. And that’s saying something. Most of the time, I barely feel myself, let alone other people. Living people.

Because this man—without a doubt—is very much alive, and just as angry.

“What the fuck…?” I whisper.

The next wave of the pull is just around the corner. I can feel it twisting beneath my skin, coiling, waiting to strike. But suddenly, I don’t care about the pull anymore.

Who is this man? I’ve never seen him with my ex-husband or Jessica. He’s not a friend, not a business partner—I would’ve noticed him before. And yet, here he is, gripping that shovel like it’s an extension of his rage, his entire body radiating something dark and seething.

And the weirdest part? He’s staring right at the willow tree.

My heart—my dead, useless heart—lurches.

Pain lets out a warning croak beside me, but I barely register it. The pull is there, simmering just under my skin.

Is he trying to get onto the property? Is he trying to rob them? Did he bring a shovel to— God —kill them and bury their bodies afterward?

Oh, shit.

I need to see this. For the sake of everything that is sacred, I need to be here when it happens.

The crows circle the willow tree above. They don’t come closer because Pain is here, but they still cut black shapes into the sky, their caws breaking the quiet one by one.

And Pain… Pain lunges at me. Unlike me, it doesn’t give a damn whether there’s some mysterious figure at my ex-husband’s house. My old house. It only cares about one thing: making sure I do my job. Nothing else.

But I’m not letting it win. Not right now.

I brace myself as it dives, shielding my face just in time. Pain snaps at my forearm instead. If I hadn’t blocked it, the bastard would’ve gone for my eye.

“Knock it off,” I hiss, waving my hand to shoo it away. “This is important. This is different. I need to see this.”

As if it cares. It lashes out again, claws curling into my sleeve. The pain is brutal. Really fucking brutal. Bad enough that I should just surrender and do what it wants.

But I can’t.

Because this man—the one who’s got my attention—jumps the fence.

His black hair, long enough to skim his shoulders, gleams as he moves. Darkness clings to him, stitched into his clothes, woven into the sharp lines of his face.

A tattered cloak drapes over his shoulders, the heavy fabric pooling in deep folds. Beneath it, layers of frayed, barely-held-together fabric wrap around him. The only thing I can make out is something resembling a tunic with a high collar, snug around his throat, leaving no skin exposed.

Silver glints against all that black—chains, pendants, sharp little trinkets dangling from him. A key hangs from his neck, a skeletal hand clings to his sleeve, and… piercings. A lot of them.

Two below his lower lip. One in his eyebrow. Another in his nostril.

Yeah, this guy is definitely not my ex husband's business partner. He doesn’t associate with people like that.

I glance toward the house, checking if anyone inside has noticed the intruder. But Jessica is too busy massaging my ex-husband’s shoulders, and he’s still flipping through papers, letting her exist in his perfect little bubble of peace.

They have no idea.

No idea that a man just vaulted their fence, carrying a shovel like a goddamn executioner. No idea that he’s getting closer and closer to their window.

Because that’s where he’s headed.

Pain screeches, shoving at me again, harder this time, nearly knocking me down. The pull to leave wraps its iron grip around my ribs. The demand to collect a soul is waking up in every inch of my being.

But I refuse. Fuck, it’s hard. But I refuse.

I lock my gaze on the stranger, willing him closer, daring him to give me even the faintest clue as to why the fuck he’s here.

And then he does something I never expected.

He stops at the base of the willow. My willow. He plants the shovel into the ground with a heavy thud, he lifts his head, and…looks straight at me.

I mean… in my direction. Because he can’t see me. That’s impossible.

But as he does, I finally see him up close. There’s a cold, razor-sharp calculation in his eyes—dark as the void, reflecting no light. His cheekbones cut high, and his jawline is sharp enough to carve stone. His skin, a shade too pale, like even the sun itself has long since given up on him looks nearly as deathly as mine.

He’s almost like me. And yet, nothing like me at all.

Dread slithers up my spine.

I really could swear he’s looking right into my eyes.

“Hm,” he hums suddenly, voice low and smooth, like poisoned honey. There’s no one around. No one he could be speaking to. But he does speak anyway. “What a curious little beast you are.”

Oh .

Oh, shit.

I don’t breathe—I don’t have to—but if I did, I think I would’ve stopped regardless.

The wind stills in the willow’s branches. The crows above me go silent. Even Pain, relentless and insufferable as ever, halts mid-motion, wings outstretched like a dark omen against the morning sky.

Because this man just spoke.

Not to the tree. Not to the birds.

To me .

I jerk back, my form flickering for a split second—an instinct I haven’t given into for years.

Because this shouldn’t be possible.

No one sees me. No one hears me. I exist in the spaces between, in the dead air between heartbeats, in the liminal space where ghosts and memories linger.

But he—whoever the fuck he is—is looking straight at me.

At me . A Grim Reaper.

And he spoke .

I spin around, scanning behind me, searching for something—anything—that might explain it. My gaze lands on a small crow in the grass, and instantly, I feel like an idiot. My too-fast nonexistent heartbeat slows. The little bird must’ve strayed from its flock circling above. That’s it. That’s all.

The man was talking to the bird. Not to me.

Shit. Figures. I’m a Grim Reaper, for fuck’s sake. No one can see me. No one can speak to me.

So why did I think—?

I shake it off, steadying myself. I even started breathing out of all this stress. Good fucking grief.

The thing that’s not good though? Pain has had enough of my hesitation. It hits again, slamming into me with the force of a riptide, and this time, I feel my entire being stretch and snap, like a tether fraying to its breaking point. My knees hit the ground. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to brace through it one more time.

It’s no use.

The pull isn’t asking anymore. It’s demanding .

I have to go.

But this man—

Thisfucking man—

He’s still standing there, at the base of my willow tree, fingers curling tight around the handle of the shovel, like he’s considering digging. Like he’s trying to unearth something.

Something buried.

Something that should never see the light of day.

Something like me.

And before I can move—before I can even think—I’m yanked from the willow tree with the force of a noose tightening around my throat.

The world shifts. Folds. Snaps inside out.

One moment, I’m there, my gaze locked onto the stranger who shouldn’t be able to see me.

The next—I’m gone.

Ripped away.

The last thing I hear before the void swallows me whole is a low chuckle, curling through the morning air like smoke.

And then—Darkness.