Page 11 of Forgotten (The Soulbound #1)

I've gone over my idea a million times. Twisting it, testing it, imagining every way it could play out before I finally decide to pitch it to my newly acquainted killers.

And what a pitch it is.

I wait for the right moment.

After showing me to his room, Talon had disappeared with the others, giving himself a thorough, thirty-minute scrub in the old hospital showers. Then, I watched as they burned their bloodied clothes—every last thread reduced to ash. Nathaniel took the organs he’d carved out and disappeared to... do whatever it is he does with them. Meanwhile, Cassian and Talon scrubbed every inch of the abandoned hospital, erasing every trace of death.

Apparently it's their protocol or something—wipe away every trace, every speck of dust, and every lingering scent of death like the best cleaning crew you'd ever see.

If the mafia and a five-star hotel housekeeping team had a baby, it would be these men.

They don’t leave a mess. Ever.

Which only makes me want to propose my idea to them even more.

So I wait. I linger near the main hall, where I can keep track of them until I can hear crows gathering on the roof of the hospital. They always gather where I linger for longer periods of time.

When the three men finally settle in the common room, they look like they just deep-cleaned hell . Talon’s still wiping the sweat off his forehead, and Cassian has soot smudged across his cheeks, which is especially impressive considering he got it while cleaning the furnace. The furnace .

I don't even want to know.

Regardless, I make my move.

I send Pain ahead—my trusty raven, not my emotional baggage (though that’s also present). The bird flutters onto the table between them and gurgles like an eldritch horror politely announcing its presence.

Cassian pauses mid-knife sharpening and glances at me, his expression as unreadable as ever. Nathaniel leans back, smirking under his breath like he already knows whatever I’m about to say is going to be wildly entertaining for him. Talon doesn’t even bother looking up at first, still dabbing his forehead with the hem of his shirt. But when he finally does, his smirk slides into place with the kind of ease that suggests he was born to be an asshole.

“Well, well,” he drawls, finally letting go of his shirt. “Our Little Grim wants attention.”

Cassian ignores him entirely, locking eyes with me. “You’re hovering.”

I roll my shoulders, folding my arms across my chest. “I have something to say.”

I let the silence stretch, just enough for them to feel it, before finally breaking it.

“I have a proposal,” I say, my voice steady despite the way something inside me twists at the words. “I want to get my revenge.”

That gets their attention. Figures.

Nathaniel straightens slightly. Cassian stops sharpening his knife. Talon tilts his head.

“Your revenge?” Cassian echoes, his expression shifting in real-time like a buffering video. It tells me that wisps of nothing shouldn’t want revenge. And yet, right there, I see it—the moment doubt creeps in. His brows furrow, and there’s something uncertain in his gaze, like maybe, just maybe, I’m not a wisp of nothing after all.

It fuels something inside me. Probably my pettiness. Maybe my rage. Could be some other novelty of an emotion that I suddenly feel.

I take a deep breath and step closer to them.

“You clearly know a lot about Grim Reapers and, well, souls,” I start. “But let me tell you how it really is anyway. Maybe there's something you don't know.”

“Alright.” Nathaniel nods.

I clear my throat.

“Just like you mentioned earlier,” I point my hand to Nathaniel, “the system of the afterlife relies heavily on Karma. It's a system of balance—of debts paid and justice served, even if that justice takes the scenic route. At least, that’s how it works in the death department.”

“Death department?” Talon echoes, brow raised.

“You know,” I say. “Where I work. Grim Reaper? Collector of souls? Facilitator of the whole ‘you’re dead, get in line’ process? My job is just to bring souls to the afterlife. Once they’re there, some other cosmic bureaucratic schmucks decide what happens next. And if a soul reincarnates immediately, they get shuffled over to the life department.”

I watch them nod their heads like this is brand-new information, and suddenly, I realize: they had no idea how any of this worked.

Wow. Okay.

“Anyway,” I continue, ignoring all this, “there are a lot of ways to die, and not all of them get treated the same. That’s where Karma comes in. A natural death? That’s neutral Karma—fate keeping the books balanced. Suicide? Leaves a mark. A debt that rolls over to the next life. And murder?” I pause. “Murder leaves a wound .”

“The killer carries a stain—negative Karma that won’t wash out, no matter how hard they scrub. The victim, if they weren’t ready to check out yet, gets a choice. Stay, or go. Most go. They let Karma handle it, trusting that justice will eventually show up, even if it’s late. But some don’t. Some stay.” I swallow hard. “I stayed.”

Nathaniel leans back, processing, then nods.

“So, in other words,” he says, “you only get to be a Grim Reaper if you’ve been murdered.”

“Correct,” I say. “It’s an exclusive club. Very VIP. The initiation process? Absolutely killer.”

I nearly snort at my own joke. If I’m being completely honest, whatever these guys did to my bones when they carved them up, they also made me funnier.

Every cloud's got a silver lining, huh?

These guys don’t seem to appreciate it, though. Nathaniel’s fingers drum against the table once, twice, then stop. Talon shifts in his seat, but his smirk? Gone. Cassian? He just watches me, jaw tight, knife resting in his grip like he forgot he was holding it.

“What are you waiting for, exactly?” It's Cassian who speaks first.

I hesitate. It’s one of those things I’d be scared to tell anyone who wasn’t another Grim Reaper. Nobody understands. But given who they are and what they do… Maybe they will.

“Once my killer comes to the afterlife,” I say finally, “I get to exact a punishment on him. Whatever it takes to make the scales feel even again.”Talon exhales slowly. Nathaniel shifts his weight. Cassian’s grip tightens on the knife. Then, Talon gestures vaguely, rolling his wrist in the air.

“So let me get this straight.” He levels me with a look. “You hang around, shuttling dead bastards to the afterlife, just… waiting for your dear old murderer to finally croak so you can swoop in and hit him with the wrath of God?”

I press my lips into a thin line. “More or less.”

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. “Aren’t we just two peas in a fucked-up little murder pod?”

I don’t respond. Because, unfortunately, he’s not exactly wrong. Their values… well, they kind of align with mine. Or at least, the darker part of me—the one that lingers at my own grave.

But there’s a difference.

They hunt. They don’t wait for karma to balance the scales—they yeet the scales straight into the abyss.

And me?

I’ve been waiting. Waiting for something, some grand cosmic force to whisper in my ear, Alright, darling, now you may commit homicide .

Then again… I never really had a choice to do it earlier, now did I?

I lift my chin, pushing past the uneasy knot in my stomach.

“I want your help.”

Cassian taps his knife against the table. He already knows where this is going. “You want us to kill your murderer. When we do, you want to punish him and continue being a Grim Reaper in peace.”

It’s not a question. And, well, that’s unfortunate for him, because he’d come out of this better if it was.

He’s not wrong. But he’s not entirely right either. Makes my job easier.

I nod.

“Yes,” I lie.

Nathaniel hits me with the next one.

“Who was he?” he asks. “How did he kill you?”

Straight to the point. No preamble, no soft landing. Just vibes and murder. The bluntness stings, but it’s expected.

I’ve been preparing for this moment—to share a portion of my past with them. Normally, I avoid thinking about it at all. It was uncomfortable before, and that was even before Nathaniel did whatever unholy thing he did to my bones. Now that I’m this… walking trauma with a side of freshly unlocked feelings, it’s even worse.

But the promise of revenge helps me do it.

“It was my husband,” I say, and somehow, my voice doesn’t shake. “He wrapped his hands around my throat and squeezed until there was nothing left of me. Then, he dug a hole underneath my beloved willow tree and buried me there, no funeral, no closure. He reported me missing, waited for the legal presumption of death, then took my inheritance, built a life in my house, and remarried.”

Silence.

Then Talon lets out a slow, impressed whistle, shaking his head.

“And you've been watching him since,” he murmurs.

“You knew that part already, didn't you?”

“Yeah, but hearing you say it out loud hits different,” Talon admits, his smirk twitching at the corners. “Damn, Little Grim. That's... rough.”

Rough. Not as rough as being drained dry by three serial killers, but sure.

“It wasn't pretty,” I say dryly.

Nathaniel looks at me like he’s dissecting my very being. His fingers are still against the table now, his usual restlessness gone, replaced by something eerily calculating.

“You want us to kill him,” he states again. “But you could just wait. Five years should be nothing to the dead. He'll die eventually.”

“Believe me, five years is not nothing. Especially not when I can… feel things again.” I scoff. “And even if—how long do you think that will take? Ten more years? Twenty? What if he lives a long, happy life? What if he dies peacefully in his sleep, never once paying for what he did to me?”

I shake my head.

“No. He took my life from me. He doesn’t get to keep his. If you hunt murderers, and I have a murderer to be killed, why not…” I gesture vaguely. “Collaborate on this one?”

Cassian hasn’t spoken since I started talking, but his gaze has darkened. His knuckles are white where he grips his knife, like he’s either considering my offer or holding back the urge to stab something. His jaw is tight enough to crush diamonds.

“How do you want him to die?” he finally asks.

I blink. “Are you taking commissions?” I try to joke. Of course, it doesn't land. Cassian is the human embodiment of a brick wall.

“I have my ways,” he says evenly. “You might think of us as a group, but we've all killed before.”

“Individually?” I ask.

“Yes.” He gives the slightest nod. “I like to kill my targets the way they killed theirs.”

Ah. A murdery little mirror match. How poetic.

He doesn’t need to say anything else for me to understand—it was his idea, making that man die exactly the way he made his victims suffer. I don’t know why he does it. Probably wouldn’t tell me even if I asked. But clearly, he’s offering the same deal to me.

But this time, something is different. He’s giving me a choice . He asked me how I wanted it done, as if, just for this moment, he’s willing to set aside his usual method—for me.

“Do you have a preference?” he asks me.

I swallow and roll my shoulders back, trying to shake off the ridiculous amount of mental energy I’ve spent fantasizing about my ex-husband’s death. I mean, it’s basically been my nightly lullaby—sometimes with extra suffering, sometimes with poetic irony, sometimes with a Final Destination level of overly complicated cause-and-effect bullshit.

But now that I’m here, standing at the precipice of actually choosing how he dies, my throat feels tight. Like my brain just realized, this is real. This isn’t just shower thoughts and imaginary monologues anymore.

“When he was killing me, I…” I start. “I felt powerless. Not in a way someone feels when they’re just overpowered physically, but in the way that breaks something inside you. Like the world was supposed to have rules, and he shattered them in front of me, and there was nothing I could do but let it happen.”

Cassian watches me carefully.

“You want him to feel the same,” he says. Again, it’s not a question, but a realization. This time, it’s a very unsettling, been-there-before kind of realization.

I let out a slow breath.

“Yes,” I admit. “I do. But he's not a simple man to break. He's cold, and ruthless, and even after killing me, he… I don't think he felt a damn thing.”

Talon rubs his jaw, while Nathaniel steeples his fingers. Cassian keeps staring at me.

“Everyone feels something,” he says finally. “Some people just don’t feel the right things at the right time.”

Something about the way he says it makes me pause. His mismatched eyes hollow out for a second, like he’s looking at something else, something not in this room. His breath stutters.

And then, just as quickly, it’s gone.

“What does he value in life?” he asks. “What would hurt the most if he lost it?”

I hesitate. Not because I don’t know the answer—I do. I know exactly what that bastard values.

It’s just that saying it out loud makes something twist deep inside me, something bitter and broken. Something that whispers, this shouldn’t still hurt like this.

I suppose, throughout my entire marriage, I wanted to be important to him. I wanted to matter more than his money, the inheritance, his picture-perfect job. I wanted to be seen. And in return, I got a masterclass in emotional neglect.

I learned not to expect anything. To be the perfect little ghost of a woman—supportive, quiet, taking up as little space as possible while making sure he had everything he needed. And in the end, even that wasn’t enough.

Because I was never what he valued.

I press my lips together, inhaling sharply through my nose.

“His reputation,” I say finally. “His control. His power over others. He likes to be seen as the perfect man—upstanding, successful, unshakable. His whole life is built around that image. It’s what he values most.”

Cassian nods, slow and deliberate. “Then we ruin him before we kill him.”

The words send a strange, electric jolt through me. Not just because of what he’s saying, but also because he's just… agreed. No hesitation. No second thoughts.

He'll kill my ex husband for me.

And by the looks of the others, they agree too.

Talon leans back in his chair, a lazy grin curling at his lips again. “Ooh, I like the sound of that. Man like that… we could have some fun first.”

Huh.

“Are you willing to be involved?” Nathaniel asks me.

I blink.”What do you mean?”

“You don’t just want him dead,” he says. “You want him to suffer. That takes time. Effort. Creativity. Participation.” He pauses, watching me. “Are you willing to help us in the process? To make sure it happens the way you want it to?”

The idea of leaving my ex-husband's death entirely up to them hadn't even crossed my mind. I’ve spent five years drifting, watching, waiting for something to change. And now, suddenly, I have options. A murder menu.

The answer is obvious.

“Of course,” I reply. “It wouldn't feel like justice otherwise.”

Cassian nods once, final. Talon’s grin turns downright feral. Nathaniel exhales through his nose, satisfied.

“Good,” he says. “Then we'll make a plan to get rid of him together. In the meantime… we have a couple of suspects we want you to look at.”

I narrow my eyes. “Suspects?”

Nathaniel nods, standing up from his chair. He strolls over to the kitchenette at the far end of the hall, opens a drawer, and pulls out a stack of papers. A stack. Not a couple of sheets, not a neat little folder—a full-on murder binder.

He flips through them, then finally selects two and hovers them in front of me.

“Murderers we’re keeping an eye on,” he says, casual as hell. “Some of them, we’re sure about. Others…” He tilts his head slightly. “Well. You might be able to help us with that.”

Help with that?

I step closer, peering at the sheets. Each name has a photo attached with a paperclip—ordinary-looking men and women, the kind of people who could cut in line at the grocery store and get away with it. But their eyes. Something about them makes my stomach twist.

I can’t lift the file myself, so I lean in, close enough to catch Nathaniel’s scent. Antiseptic, leather, and something faintly metallic—like blood just barely scrubbed clean.

It makes sense. He’s the methodical one, the one who handles the bodies with precision. Everything about him smells like sterility and control.

But then there’s something else. Something unexpected. A sweet, citrusy note that makes my head spin. Like someone spritzed a fresh orange all over him.

I bite my cheek to stay focused. Now is not the time to be distracted by whatever sinful combination of cologne and murder aura he’s working with. I force my eyes back to the file.

First name on the list: Laura Collins.

Next to it, there's a picture. A middle-aged woman, with soft brown hair pulled into a tight bun, thin-rimmed glasses perched on the bridge of her nose, and a warm, practiced smile. The kind of face you’d trust. A teacher, maybe. A kind neighbor.

I frown, scanning the brief notes scrawled beneath her name.

Laura Collins. Age: 47. Profession: Candy Shop Owner. Suspected of involvement in the deaths of three children. Causes of death officially ruled as medical complications. No criminal charges filed.

I straighten, my gaze flicking from the file to Nathaniel, then to the others.

“Keep reading,” Talon says.

I flip to the next page. Another picture. This one of a balding, vaguely sweaty-looking man.

Edgar Holt. Age: 52. Profession: Plumber. Suspected of poisoning the water filters in multiple apartment complexes. Official cause of death for victims: organ failure due to undiagnosed conditions. No official ties to Holt. No police investigation.

I stare at the file.

Poisoning water filters? Killing children under the guise of medical complications? These weren’t just murderers. They were the kind of people who killed quietly, insidiously. The kind who never got caught because their crimes were designed to blend into the background of everyday tragedies.

I exhale slowly, lifting my eyes to Nathaniel.

“These people,” I say, my voice hollow. “They’ve… they've never been charged with anything?”

“Not legally,” Nathaniel replies, setting the files down on the table. “Not in a way that matters.”

Fuck. Okay.

“And you want me to do what, exactly?” I ask.

“We're not omniscient. We don’t act on suspicion alone.” He slides the files forward, right next to where Pain is standing, who is now looking at them like he’s beginning to like them.

“But you were right before about one thing,” Nathaniel continues. “We know about the system of karma. We know karma matters in the afterlife. And we know you have access to it.”

I squint at him. “What do you mean?”

“You can sense whether a living being has killed before,” he explains. “Or at least, that's what our sources claim.”

I glance back at the files. Then at the men. Then back at the files. Then at the ceiling, as if divine intervention might offer me an excuse to leave.

I purse my lips. I have never felt anything like that before. Then again, I’ve never exactly stopped mid-reaping to do a vibe check on a soul’s criminal record. I wasn’t here to play judge and jury—I just wanted to guide the dead where they belong.

“It's the first time I’ve heard of it,” I admit, shrugging. “I've never tried to judge a soul before.”

Nathaniel nods like that was the expected answer. “Then it’s time you try.”

I roll the idea around in my head.

Try to sense a murderer. Get my ex murdered in return. Sounds like a solid trade. A morally gray, mildly concerning, possibly unhinged trade—but a good one.

Because there's something they don't know. I haven't told them.

Once my killer dies, I don't need to be a Grim Reaper anymore.

Once my killer dies, I can go to the afterlife.

I can be truly free.

And whatever binds they think they have on me will vanish into thin air.

That’s why I look Nathaniel square in the eyes, straighten my spine, and flash my most innocent, “I’m definitely not planning something” smile.

“Alright,” I say, trying to crack my non-corporeal knuckles. “Let’s see what I can do.”

Give me those goddamn murderers.