Page 14 of Forgotten (The Soulbound #1)

Why do I feel alive again?

I was weightless before. Untouchable. A shadow caught between the realms. But now—now heat pulses against my wrist, sinking beneath whatever it is that makes up a Grim Reaper’s body.

I look up at Talon. His smirk is gone. That dark green eye, sharp and knowing, is locked onto his fingers where they curl around my skin.

He feels it too. He must.

And the sultriness of his voice... It’s a crime.

My heart shouldn’t be pounding like this. But in the name of the entire universe, it does.

I can feel him.

Not just his hand. Not just the pressure of it against my wrist.

I can feel his heat. It's sinking into me, wrapping me, dragging me back into the world of the living even though just moments ago I was ready to disappear forever.

His thumb traces a slow, absentminded circle against my skin—or the idea of my skin, since, technically, I don’t have any. But somehow, it still has the same devastating effect it did the last time a man touched me like this. Which was…

A long time ago.

His grip tightens—just slightly, just enough that my entire being snaps to attention.

“You can feel it, can't you, Little Grim?” he murmurs, low and rough. “Does it feel good?”

Oh. Oh no.

His other hand lifts. Just a few inches. Just enough to make me realize that this man absolutely knows what he’s doing.

I should run. Should phase out. Should tear myself away from whatever the hell this is.

But I don’t.

Because his fingers brush over my forearm, and I don’t just feel it.

I crave it.

I try bite back a sound—something deeply, deeply unholy—because I refuse to give him the satisfaction. But Talon hears it anyway.

And that’s when his smirk returns, slow and sharp and devastatingly aware.

“I feel it, too,” he tells me. “It's not fully there, but you're… so warm.”

Warm? Me? The dead one?

I’d argue, but my brain is currently buffering. Because no. He’s the one on fire. His touch is melting me, seeping into parts of me that have been locked away for years, and now he’s waking them up. He’s making them ache .

The thought I had when I first saw him slams back into me, twice as strong. This man is beautiful. The kind of beautiful that would have most women dropping to their knees—some metaphorically, some very literally. They’d lap up his teasing like it’s their last sip of water in a desert, chase the heat rolling off him like moths with no sense of self-preservation.

I ignored it all this time.

Why would I care? What’s a little beauty gonna do for a dead girl?

And yet… somehow, it does plenty now.

His burnt-orange hair is a mess, like he just rolled out of bed—or like he should still be in it. And his dark green eye—God, it’s not just green. It’s deep, shadowy forest green, flecked with orange, like he’s got a whole damn wildfire smoldering inside him. Dangerous. Gorgeous. An irresistible kind of menace.

And the way he touches me—it's not just touch. His fingers barely skim the length of my forearm, the lightest drag, but somehow, he looks at me like I just handed him the key to the universe. Like this small thing is something more.

Afterlife help me.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice like molten sin. “You like it, don’t you?”

I don’t even have to answer. He already knows.

His smirk deepens, and there’s something dark flickering behind his eyes—something that wasn’t there before. Curiosity? Satisfaction? Hunger?

I don't know what it is, but I need more of it.

His knuckles ghost along my jaw. The sensation sinks in, spreading heat through me inch by inch. I lean into it before I can stop myself.

A sharp inhale—his.

And just like that, I know. I am in so much fucking trouble. There’s no way I can stop now.

His fingers still for a heartbeat, then trace the shape of me—down the column of my throat, across my collarbone, to the bare curve of my shoulder.

“You’re warm everywhere,” he murmurs, softer now, almost reverent. “Even here.”

He presses his palm against my chest. Right over where my heart used to beat. Right above my nipple.

I make a noise. A choked, desperate sound that betrays everything.

His lips part slightly. His eyes drop to my mouth.

“I could make you feel more,” he says.

A challenge. A promise.

And I—

“Enough,” Cassian grunts somewhere in the background.

It should stop me. It should stop Talon. And yet…

“Shh, it's okay,” Talon whispers. To me. His voice is pure sin wrapped in silk, dipped in whiskey, coated in honey. He speaks to me like he’s never been told “no” in his entire goddamn life.

“But—”

“Don't worry about him, Little Grim.”

It's not Cassian I worry about. It's not Nathaniel either, who is watching the two of us with such intensity, his stare burns. It's the fact that suddenly, I don't want this to ever end. Ever.

His hand slides lower. Barely. Just enough that I feel the drag of his palm down my sternum, the lightest press of his fingertips tracing the curve of my ribcage. His other hand moves up, brushing along the inside of my wrist.

It's addictive.

A shudder rolls through me, slow and aching.

“You’re shaking,” Talon murmurs. “Why, Little Grim?”

I don’t answer. I can’t answer.

Because his hand is dipping lower. Because his fingers trace the barest path down my stomach. And that heat he told me I had? I think I'm starting to feel it. Right between my legs, I…

I arch into it. Into him.

“Talon,” Cassian warns again, rougher this time.

And I get him. I really do. But I also really want to know if Talon slides his hand just a little bit lower—just to graze my clit—will I feel more? I can feel my eyelashes fluttering, my mouth opening, my breath hitching.

Talon watches me like I’m a meal, a prayer, a dessert he can’t wait to sink his teeth into. Like we’re closed off in a little bubble where the rest of the world—dead or alive—doesn’t fucking matter.

“I can't stop when she's looking at me like this,” he breathes out. To Cassian this time. “She's feeling good, Cas. She likes this.”

“Please, just…” I hear myself saying. “Just a little bit lower. Just…”

Cassian moves before I can blink.

One second, Talon is still touching me, still stroking his fingers down my stomach, still tracing lazy, sinfully soft patterns over my too-warm, too-sensitive skin.

The next, he’s gone .

Cassian yanks him back so hard that Talon stumbles, barely catching himself as he’s shoved away from me. The loss of contact is immediate—a brutal severing that leaves my entire being aching, my body locking up as if something vital has just been ripped away.

I gasp—an empty, mournful, devastated sound—and sway where I stand.

Talon steadies himself, and that smirk—the slow, infuriating, absolutely criminal smirk—returns like he’s savoring the aftershock of what just happened.

His eyes flick up to Cassian, amusement dancing in them.

“Well,” he breathes. “Someone’s jealous.”

Cassian doesn’t reply. He never does.

But the way he’s looking at Talon—one dark eye flat, the other an abyss of barely contained rage, jaw clenched so tight I can practically hear his teeth cracking—makes the temperature in the room plummet. His fists stay curled at his sides, muscles flexed like he’s holding himself back from something deeply vicious.

For once, Nathaniel is dumbfounded. And I mean actually dumbfounded. He looks between the three of us, his expression flickering between horrified and very concerned. His mouth is slightly open, but for once, he doesn’t have anything to say.

I just stand there, my body humming with residual heat, my legs shaky, my fingers twitching at my sides like they don’t know what to do now that Talon’s body isn’t pressed against mine anymore.

And I hate it.

I hate how empty I feel without his touch. How cold. How the sensation of his fingers still lingers, phantom heat trailing down my stomach, leaving me hollow and restless.

I hate that Cassian was the one to end it.

And most of all, I hate that I wanted more.

“You're forgetting what she is, Talon,” Cassian grits through his teeth. “She's a fucking ghost .”

Talon’s smirk doesn’t waver. If anything, it grows.

“Didn't feel like a ghost to me,” he shoots back. “Felt pretty fucking good, actually. But hey, I get it. You wouldn’t know, would you? Too scared to touch, too scared to want.”

Cassian’s entire body tenses . He looks like he's just a second away from sending his fists flying straight into Talon's smug face. He's there. He's right there. I brace for impact.

But then, at the last second, Cassian does something worse.

He walks away.

Just turns, shoots me a single sidelong glance, and then disappears into the hospital’s shadowed corridors.

“Thought so!” Talon calls after him. Then, with all the grace of a well-fed jungle cat, he stretches, rolling his shoulders back and raking a hand through his messy, fire-kissed hair like he’s physically shaking off the tension.

Finally, he turns to me, still looking like trouble incarnate.

“Well,” he sighs, eyes gleaming, “you don’t wanna leave anymore, do you?”

I glare at him. My body is still buzzing , my very soul somehow sensitive from his touch, my insides a chaotic mess of want, regret, and the ever-present need to make a series of terrible decisions. But my mind? At least that is starting to catch up.

“You’re an asshole,” I bite out.

It’s the only thing I can say without throwing myself back at him and demanding a sequel to whatever the hell just happened.

Talon grins.

“Yeah,” he agrees easily. “But I’m the asshole who made you feel , Little Grim.”

Ugh.

I refuse to stay here another second.

Following Cassian’s lead, I pivot on my heel and march the hell away.

Away from them. Away from this.

Because if I stay any longer, I might start feeling like being what I am isn’t enough anymore.

Hell. Maybe I already do.

I don’t know where I’m going—just like I don’t know where I am when I stumble into yet another endless, nightmare-inducing hallway of this abandoned hospital.

This one looks like it used to be a waiting room. There are chairs lined up against the wall and old magazines scattered across the floor. One is flipped open to an article about “10 Ways to Reduce Stress” which, given the circumstances, feels offensively ironic.

Apparently, even in an experimental horror hospital, they kept up appearances. Like, “Yes, we are performing morally dubious procedures on you, but hey! Here’s a crossword puzzle you’ll never finish because you’ll be too busy being a test subject.”

Or maybe I’m being cynical. Maybe these poor souls actually read this crap because it was all they had—clinging to their last shred of normalcy in a place that stripped them of everything else.

That thought makes my chest ache. Not just for them, but for me. Because I get it. I know what it’s like to hold onto something small, something stupid, just to feel like a person instead of… whatever the hell I am now.

I stop in front of one of the chairs and stare at the dark stain on the seat.

Blood? Coffee? Impossible to tell at this point.

I feel like this stupid ass stain.

Unidentifiable, possibly tragic, and long forgotten.

“Fuck,” I breathe out, dragging a hand through my hair. I can feel the strands tugging at my scalp, which is beyond messed up. It has never happened before.

I plant my hands on my hips and crane my head up. That’s when I realize—it's not just my hair I can feel. My muscles ache too. Huh.

So, I roll my shoulders. Because that’s what living people do when their muscles hurt.

It… helps.

Weird.

I press a hand flat against my chest, right over where my heart used to beat. Nothing. No thump, no rhythm. Dead silence.

Right. I’m still dead. Nothing changed. Nothing except my useless, now-present emotions and feelings.

I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep, unnecessary breath.

“Pull yourself together,” I mutter, shaking my head. “You’re a Grim Reaper. You shouldn't want—”

“Want what?”

I spin around so fast my vision whirls.

Nathaniel leans against the doorway, arms crossed, his eyes sharp and smoky. They look different now, more intense than I remember. I tell myself it’s just the nerves, but when I focus, I realize they’re actually a lighter shade of blue—bright and icy, almost hypnotic.

He’s the only one who doesn’t look blind in one eye. So what’s going on?

“Eavesdropping now?” I ask, dropping my hands from my hips and shifting from one leg to another.

“I don’t have to eavesdrop when you’re muttering to yourself in an empty hallway.”

I huff and turn away. Fantastic. I’m a mutterer now. Another fun addition to my rapidly crumbling grip on reality.

“If you came here to tease me, don't,” I say.

I hear him push off the doorway and get closer.

“Tease you?” he echoes, his voice lower now, more thoughtful than taunting. “No, Skye. I came to ask you something.”

I turn fully to face him, arms crossing over my chest like that’ll actually do something. A flimsy barrier at best.

“What?”

He stops just close enough that I can see the crease between his brows, the way his jaw tenses like he’s trying to measure his words. That’s rare for him.

“Did it feel real?” he asks. “With him?”

I go still.

“Why?”

“Just entertain me, please.”

I swallow. I still feel the phantom sensation of Talon’s touch still lingering, the heat coiling low in my stomach, something waking up inside me.

Am I supposed to tell him that?

I straighten my spine and chew on my lip.

“I haven't felt a touch in years,” I say. “Let alone a good one. So...”

“So it was a good touch, huh?” His gaze sweeps over my face. I don’t let myself dwell on the fact that he looks the most regal of them all—his nose perfectly straight, lips sculpted just enough to be soft yet firm, jaw so sharp it could cut. I don’t let myself think about how, just like Talon, he's breathtakingly beautiful.

Or how badly I want to run my hands over the planes of his body. Just to see if it would feel just as good.

“Does it matter?” My voice comes out a little too breathy.

Nathaniel’s composure shifts, just barely—but enough. His eyes flick down to my lips, then lower, and his tongue does that thing where it plays with the piercing encasing his bottom lip.

And that’s when my body betrays me once more.

The heat inside me flares to life again, this time lower. And technically, I shouldn’t even have an operational reproductive system anymore. But apparently, it’s working just fine. Apparently I want more than just one living man.

I can feel it. The throbbing, the pooling, the undeniable realization that my body has decided to resurrect itself solely to be touched again.

To experience this man’s tongue piercing…

No. No, no, no.

Nathaniel’s tongue flicks out again, just for a second. And I’m officially an enemy of God again. I’m already leaning, already chasing the high…

But just as quickly, he blinks, clears his throat, and visibly resets himself—closing his mouth, swallowing hard, taking an abrupt step back like he’s trying to physically escape the moment.

“Just…” he says, smiling stiffly. “It matters for… research. Just to see the extent of your powers.”

I stare at him.

“My powers ?”

“The more you can do in the human realm, the more you should be able to sense karma.” His voice is back to that usual tone—cool, clinical, detached.” And suddenly, I remember something very important that I somehow forgot in the middle of all this.

This man is a cold-blooded murderer. Not my friend. Not someone I should want to touch.

This is exactly why we’re even talking right now—because he somehow hacked the Grim Reaper system and tethered my existence to his. He carved my bones. I should be in my willow tree, minding my own damn business, but no, here I am. With him and his unhinged companions.

All they care about is getting more victims. That’s what they want from me—to point them out. That’s it.

Besides… they are alive. I’m dead. Why would they even want me? That wouldn’t make any sense.

“That’s what you’re thinking about right now?” I ask, slowly. “Karma? Rules? I just—” I cut myself off before I say too much, before I admit how much I liked pretending otherwise.

“You just what?” he prompts.

I refuse to answer, because whatever was about to come out of my mouth was… embarrassing. Utterly unrealistic. Delusional.

Thankfully, he drops the topic with a shrug.

“I’m glad you don’t want to disappear anymore, Skye,” he tells me instead. “So now, if you can, follow me. We need to work on the Candy Maker case.”

And just like that, he turns and walks off.

And I follow.

Not because I want to. Not because I trust him. Not because I like his company.

But because I desperately need a distraction. I need something to keep my hands occupied. My mind. My fucking soul.

So I trail after him down the dimly lit corridors, past rusted doors and empty, echoing rooms. He doesn’t speak, and I don’t ask where we’re going. I just move.

At the end of a long hallway, he stops in front of a door. Pushes it open.

I step inside after him, half-expecting to find a secret lair. Or a murder den. Or more bodies to get rid of. But no.

It’s just a small, windowless room, lit by a single, flickering overhead lamp. A desk sits against one wall, cluttered with files and papers—some yellowed with age, others freshly printed. A single chair is tucked behind it. Nathaniel moves toward the desk and picks up a thick folder from the stack.

“Candy Maker,” he murmurs, laying out a photo. “Laura Collins.”

I stare.

It’s her. The woman from earlier. The one in the file. The one who owns the candy shop.

“What do you want me to do?” I glare up at him. “Just stand near her and hope I feel something?”

Nathaniel tilts his head, considering me. “More or less. Maybe you don’t even need to get close.”

I scoff. “That’s a shitty plan.”

“You haven’t even heard it yet.” He leans against the desk, flipping through the pages. “Besides, whatever limits you think you have… you’re different now.”

My stomach tightens. “Different how?”

He lifts a brow, looking almost disappointed that I even have to ask. “You’re feeling things, Skye. More than you should. That means your connection to this world is stronger than before. And if that’s the case, your connection to karma might be stronger too. I want you to try using it.”

“And if it doesn’t work?” I narrow my eyes. “What then? You’ll go looking for another Grim Reaper?”

That actually makes him smile. Smile. Nathaniel—the man who never smiles unless it’s fake—actually smirks. For real.

“You’re it, Skye,” he murmurs. “So it better work.”

“Or what?”

My heartbeat returns to my chest just in time for him to drop the most unhinged threat of the century.

“Or we’ll have to make you feel something more than just a light touch over your Grim Reaper clothes.” His voice dips, dark and amused. “We’ll have to make you feel a whole lot more.”

…Oh.

I blink. My brain stalls. Is he talking about pain? Pleasure? Both?

Nathaniel tilts his head, watching me with an expression that’s almost bored. Almost.

But something tells me he already knows exactly how he wants to make me feel.

He just wants me to guess.