Page 10 of Forgotten (The Soulbound #1)

The rain hasn’t let up all night. It drums against the roof, slides down the window panes, soaks into the earth until the whole yard smells of damp rot. The rocking chair creaks beneath me, the only sound in the house besides the rain.

Then comes the thud of boots on the porch.

I know that sound. Duvall.

He never wipes his feet. Never shakes off the rain. He just barges in, dragging the storm in with him, filling the house with damp and smoke and trouble. The door slams behind him, rattling the glass even upstairs.

I don't want to go down to meet him. I don’t want to see what kind of mess he’s going to bring this time. Because whatever Duvall dirties or breaks, I’ll have to clean it up afterward.

My knees still ache from cleaning the carpets from last week. I’ve got bruises all over my elbows from scrubbing out the boot prints he left behind—prints that never fully come out no matter how hard I try.

And I always try. If I don't, Mark gets even more unpleasant than usual.

I clutch the armrests of Gran’s rocking chair, willing myself to stay still. Maybe if I’m quiet enough, still enough, he won’t come looking for me. Maybe he’ll head straight for the kitchen, drink whatever’s left in the liquor cabinet, talk things over with Mark, and leave.

But then I hear the heavy sigh, the scrape of a chair against the floor, and the pop of a beer bottle cap hitting the counter. He’s settling in.

“Skye,” I hear Mark shout from downstairs. I squeeze my eyes shut. Count to five. “Get down here,” he calls, this time sharper.

I push myself up from the rocking chair, my joints protesting, my fingers numb from the strain.

I step into the hallway, my socks barely making a sound on the wooden floor. I pause at the top of the stairs, just for a second. Only then do I start to descend.

Duvall is leaning against the counter, a beer bottle dangling from his fingers, his damp coat still dripping onto the tile. He hasn’t even bothered to close the cabinet door after rummaging through it.

“Finally,” he mutters when he sees me. Then he gestures to the table. “I'm getting hungry.”

I force myself not to clench my jaw, even as his gaze moves up and down my body. It’s the kind of look that sets every nerve in my body on edge every time he does it.

Something about female intuition, I think.

For the past three months, Duvall has been making himself at home in our house. He shows up at least once a week, demanding both money and... other things. Every day, I pray he won't show up. And each time he does, I hope he won’t want anything more than dinner, liquor, or money. But the way he looks at me... It’s obvious that time might come. Soon.

Mark doesn’t argue with him. Not really. He grumbles, sure, puts on a big show of sighing and dragging his feet, but in the end, he always gives Duvall what he wants. Because Duvall doesn’t ask. He takes.

I move to the stove, careful, slow, like sudden movements might set something off. I don’t look at him. I don’t want to see if he’s still watching me, if that flicker of amusement is curling his mouth like it always does. I pull a pan from the cupboard, set it on the burner, and turn the dial just a little too hard. The gas clicks loudly before the flame catches.

Behind me, the chair groans as Duvall leans back. “Got anything decent?”

“No,” I answer, my voice too flat, too curt. I feel Mark’s eyes snap to me from where he’s standing near the fridge.

Duvall only chuckles, like he likes the idea of me talking back.

“Pity,” he says. “Guess I’ll have to make do.”

I grab a carton of eggs and crack one into the pan. The oil hisses. The smell of burning fills the air, and I don’t care. Maybe if I burn it bad enough, he won’t eat it. Maybe he’ll leave early, go haunt someone else’s house for a while.

But I know better. Duvall isn’t the type of man who leaves when you want him to. He's proven that over and over again.

And even though I've always thought Mark was a responsible man, those days when I could rely on him are long gone.

At first, I told myself it was because Mark couldn’t stop him. Duvall’s bigger, stronger, and just plain mean. He has that kind of weight behind his words that makes people flinch before they even know why. But then I started wondering how my good, respectable husband got involved with the local mafia in the first place.

I don’t ask anymore. The last time I did, Mark snapped and told me to keep my mouth shut.

The egg burns, the edges curling black against the pan, the smell thick and acrid. I push it around with the spatula, but I know it’s ruined. I glance at Mark, who’s still staring at me, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“Come on, Sweetheart,” Duvall says. “I know you can do better than that.”

I don’t answer. I tip the pan forward, letting the burnt egg slide onto a plate with a sharp scrape of metal against ceramic.

Duvall picks up his fork and pokes at the food like he expects it to do something. Then he shrugs and takes a bite anyway.

“Better than nothing,” he says, flashing me a grin before washing it down with a swig of beer.

Fuck.

If I just could, I’d leave. Pack a bag, walk out the front door, never look back. But at this point, Mark owes too much money, and Duvall would find me no matter what.

So I stay.

Duvall finishes eating, wipes his mouth on his sleeve like he was raised in a barn, then stands with a lazy stretch and a roll of his shoulders.

My stomach twists.

“Mark,” Duvall says, and it’s not really a request, “why don’t you step outside for a smoke?”

Mark, who up until this moment has been pretending to be one with the fridge, stiffens. His jaw clenches like he’s grinding his teeth into dust, but he doesn’t argue. He grabs his cigarettes and lighter, then ghosts out the door without so much as a glance my way. The back door creaks open, then shuts.

And just like that, it’s me and Duvall.

The silence stretches. My heartbeat thuds so loudly in my ears, I’m sure he can hear it.

Duvall sets his beer bottle down with a soft clink. I flinch like he just pulled a knife. He tilts his head, watching me with that lazy amusement curling at his lips.

I grip the spatula tighter.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he says, stepping closer. “We’re just getting to know each other better.”

I don’t move. I don’t breathe. But deep inside, something inside me snaps, like a rubber band stretched too far.

I won’t let this happen.

Not tonight. Not ever.

My fingers tighten around the spatula, the edges still smeared with burnt egg. My knuckles go white.

I can’t run. I can’t hide.

But I can fight.

And if I have to send a man to the afterlife in order to protect myself, I just might.