Page 16 of Forgotten (The Soulbound #1)

Three hours into this, and I still feel nothing.

The woman's picture lies on the table, her kind smile frozen in time, but for all the good it's doing me, I may as well be staring at a potato.

Meanwhile, Nathaniel sits on his bed like a cryptid who’s forgotten how human rest works, flipping through old case files and occasionally glancing at me like I’m supposed to perform a miracle.

It’s the middle of the night. He should be fast asleep. Instead, he’s torturing me.

But what can I even do? I’ve been staring at this woman’s picture for hours, and all I’ve accomplished is memorizing the exact shape of her nose and deciding that it actually looks quite Roman underneath all those wrinkles.

At this point, we should just drive to her candy shop in the morning and figure it out there. Except, you see, we're going to do it anyway; it's just that Nathaniel insists I play psychic detective first.

Isigh, rubbing my temples. “This isn't working.”

His cool gaze flicks up from the file.

“Try harder,” he murmurs.

I roll my eyes. “Wow. Stunning insight. Thanks.”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t quite smile—just tilts his head slightly. In the warm orange glow of the overhead light, his countless piercings gleam like copper. His hair, usually slicked back, is pulled into a bun at the nape of his neck. Like this, his usual sharp, icy demeanor seems almost soft.

Which is misleading, of course. There’s nothing soft about him. Being in the same room as him feels like a slow kind of torture.

“Just say the word,” he says casually. “I'll help you—Talon style.”

Ah. Yeah. This again.

About three hours ago, well past midnight, we made a deal—he wouldn’t lay a hand on me unless I asked him to. And I haven’t. But this is the second time he's brought it up, and I’m starting to think he wants me to.

“Touch messes with my head,” I remind him. “It doesn't make my powers any different.”

He sighs, drops his gaze to the file in his hands, and starts rolling his lip piercing with his tongue. A completely normal thing to do. Not distracting at all. Nope.

“You're really stubborn about this,” he says. “As if the perspective is so awful.”

“It is awful.”

I turn around and lean over the table, not wanting to look at him anymore. The way he plays with that metal ring in his lip... Ugh.

I stare at the photo again.

Laura Collins.

Somewhere behind those kind eyes, a soul hides. And if Nathaniel's suspicions hold weight, it's not a pretty one. If she's a serial killer, there are stains on it. Ugly ones. But no matter how hard I stare at the picture, trying to summon my Grim Reaper mojo, I get… nothing.

I just don't think it works that way. I can't just, like, see through someone, especially not from miles away while looking at a picture.

Behind me, Nathaniel shifts on the bed. I know he’s watching me. I don’t have to check. He’s got that “I have thoughts, and they are mildly inappropriate” energy.

And that's when an idea hits me.

“How many people have you killed?” I ask, spinning around suddenly.

He cocks a brow. “Why do you ask?”

I shrug. “I need a reference.”

“A reference.”

“Yes. If I can’t sense anything from her, maybe I can sense something from you.” I tap my fingers against the table. “You're a killer, right? If you’re as guilty as she is, I should be able to feel it. Consider it a controlled experiment.”

For a beat, he just stares, like he’s offended he didn’t think of this first. Which, let’s be honest, is fair—he seems like the type of man who loves a good murder hypothesis. But I guess his mind had been occupied elsewhere. Probably with the “I wonder what happens if I touch my chained-up Grim Reaper” thoughts.

“Alright,” he finally says, closing the file and setting it aside. “Together with the man you saw before, I killed four people in total.”

I sit on the table and cross my legs. “Who were they?”

“Murderers,” he replies without missing a beat. “One of them killed my mother.”

I still at that.

Of all the things I expected him to say, that wasn’t on the list.

Nathaniel, the sharp-eyed, methodical killer, had a mother.

I mean… duh, everyone has one, but still.

For a second, I picture him as a kid—smaller, softer, not yet someone who would kill four people without hesitation. Maybe even innocent.

Something about that messes with me.

Damn…

Why are feelings so damn disgusting?

I clear my throat. “How did it happen?”

His lips press together. He leans back against the bed frame, tilting his head slightly, considering. Then, after a beat, he gives me the details like he’s reciting facts, his voice calm. Detached.

“She was a nurse. Worked night shifts. One day, she didn’t come home. Police found her body in an abandoned apartment two days later.” His fingers drum idly against his knee. “They said it was a random act of violence. Wrong place, wrong time. She bled out slow.”

I swallow.

“Let me guess.” My voice is quiet. “The man who did it walked free?”

Nathaniel hums in agreement. “Lack of evidence. Technicalities. All the usual bullshit.” He exhales through his nose, like he actually finds it funny now. “Didn’t matter. I made sure he paid in the end.”

I don’t have to ask how.

I know what that kind of justice looks like.

I stare at him, my fingers tightening around my own arms. This should make me feel something. Disgust, maybe. Or at the very least, wariness. But all I feel is...

Understanding .

I shake it off.

“One of them you saw yourself. The other two were doctors,” he continues. “My colleagues, in fact. I used to be a doctor myself.”

My brain short-circuits.

“Wait, what?”

He meets my stare. The corner of his lips twitches.

“You were a doctor?” I repeat, slowly, because my neurons are still buffering.

The twitching of his lips turns into a full-on smirk, and he tilts his head. “Surprised?”

Uh, yeah. A little.

I study him—sharp jawline, piercings, the cold, precise way he carries himself. Somehow, I never imagined him in a sterile white coat, prescribing meds, holding a clipboard. But now that he’s said it… it makes a disturbing kind of sense.

Nathaniel is meticulous. Clinical. There’s something methodical about the way he moves, the way he speaks.

I remember how he flashed that UV light all over the bloodied basement. He was a detail-oriented monster.

By the way, speaking of the basement…

“I suppose the cut on the murderer’s wrist I saw before was you cutting the flesh just right…?” The thought slips out before I can stop it.

“Oh?” He gives me another smile tonight. Jesus. “You were admiring my work?”

“Admiring is a strong word,” I mutter. “But yeah, it crossed my mind once or twice that he was… prepared very particularly.” I pause. “Let me guess, you prolonged his death? To catch me?”

His smile widens—a little too much. I can’t even tell if it makes him prettier or creepier. Maybe both at once. He’s got that unsettling, sexy-but-might-bury-you-in-the-woods quality about him, like he belongs in both a fever dream and a true crime documentary.

“Do you want to know what I did?” he asks.

Do I? Absolutely not. But also… yeah. This feels like Grim Reaper 101. If I don’t learn, I might end up on the wrong side of a very educational experience again. Assuming my plan fails and Nathaniel and the rest don’t kill my ex-husband.

So I nod.

“I made sure he wouldn’t go too quickly. That’s the key to good work—control.” His voice is smooth, almost tender. “A quick death is easy. But that’s not what I needed. I needed him to be aware. I needed him to feel everything.”

I should be horrified, but I just watch him—the way his fingers drum against his knee, his lazy amusement. No regret. No hesitation.

He’s so… fucked up. Why do I like it?

“The syringe had three components,” he continues. “A metabolic suppressant to slow his heart rate—keep him alive longer while his body shut down. A neuromuscular paralytic, so he wouldn’t struggle, couldn’t move, couldn’t even blink. And, of course, a coagulant inhibitor. Can’t have the blood clotting up when you need it fresh.”

A slow, creeping chill crawls down my spine. “So he was completely aware?”

Nathaniel nods. “He felt everything. The incisions. The blood leaving his body. The weight of it all, dragging him under.” He exhales, tapping his fingers against his knee. Once. Twice. “Just like his victims did.”

He watches me, waiting. Expecting something—horror? Judgment?

I give him neither.

“What about the other men? You colleagues? What did they do?”

“They were worse,” he says simply.

I raise an eyebrow. “Worse than a man who tortured and murdered your mother?”

His smirk vanishes. “Yes.”

A beat of silence. I wait, letting him decide whether to continue. He does.

“They ran a private research clinic. One of those high-end, cutting-edge institutions where the rich go to buy miracles.” He scoffs. “Except their miracles weren’t miracles at all. Just experiments. The kind that didn’t care if their subjects survived. Quite similar to what was happening here, ironically.”

“Is that how you know what happened here? You worked there?”

“Not for long,” he replies. “I was young. Talented. Thought I was saving lives.” His fingers flex against his knee. “Until I realized how many we were taking instead. I left and went to work for them.”

Well. Damn.

I swallow hard.

“What kind of experiments were they doing?”

His eyes narrow.

“The kind you don’t get consent for.”

For the first time, something cracks through that perfectly smooth, well-practiced voice. Something simmering, buried deep.

Rage.

It’s old and well hidden. A quiet, lethal kind of fury that has long since burned away the need for dramatic outbursts or reckless vengeance. It's the kind of anger that molds a person into a monster.

“I've killed before, too,” I say. It’s one of those things I don’t really want to share, but I do anyway.

His eyes widen, and his pretty lips part in surprise.

“Really?” He leans back in his seat, a little stunned. “You don’t seem like the type.”

Maybe I don’t. Maybe the universe doesn’t even see me that way. But it happened. I killed a man with my own two hands.

I rest my hands on my knees and lower my head to scrutinize them. My skin is pallid and clean, not bloodied like it was back then. But I can still recall the sensation of blood on them. It was warm and sticky, the scent metallic, cloying in the air.

My ex-husband buried me with that blood still on my hands. He let that little vestige of my sin follow me, decompose with me, as though it had seared itself into my very being, as though absolution was beyond my reach.

The heavens disagreed.

Probably that’s why I don’t have it on me still.

“It was self-defense,” I mutter, the words sour on my tongue. “Apparently the universe likes to make people die like this—using the hands of other mortals to uphold its precious equilibrium.”

Nathaniel hums. “Isn’t that just convenient for them?”

“I know, right?”

He tilts his head, watching me. “Do you regret it?”

I inhale slowly, letting the question sit. Regret is complicated. Should I regret it? Maybe. Probably. But the truth is…

“No.”

Something shifts in his face, a flicker of understanding—or maybe approval. He doesn’t pry for details. Maybe he already knows that some things are best left unspoken.

Instead, he leans forward just a little, resting his forearms on his knees, his fingers loosely tangled together. “Then you get it.”

“Yeah. I think I do.” I nod. “I'm still with you guys, right?”

The corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s fighting off a smirk. Another one . And I know what he’s thinking—that in the end, I don’t really have a choice. That if I tried to leave, they’d just whisper into my skull again and drag me back like some cursed stray.

But I wonder if he underestimates just how deeply petty a Grim Reaper can be. If I really wanted to be rid of them, I’d sink into the earth, lingering just out of reach—close enough to haunt but never close enough to be useful. I could knock over their cups, whisper nonsense in their ears at night, move their weapons just slightly to the left so they miss every throw. I could be unbearable. And if I truly wanted to be left alone, I would’ve done it already.

I don’t. Some part of me still wants to be around. Even if they make me consider ghosting them—literally.

God… I think Talon’s sense of humor is rubbing off on me.

“So,” he says, “what do you feel when you look at me?”

The question is so loaded that, for a moment, my brain misfires. Because some dumb, embarrassing, undead part of me thinks he means something else. Something way too complicated.

But then I remember what we’re actually doing here. I’m supposed to be reading his soul, after all.

“Nothing,” I say. “Not what you want me to.”

His tongue rolls over his lip piercing again. “You're not even trying. I can see it.”

“I am trying.”

“Mhm.” His eyes glint with something—challenge, amusement, the knowledge that he’s absolutely getting under my skin. Then he extends a hand toward me. “Come closer.”

My heart pounds.

This is a bad idea.

This man is a bad idea.

I don't know if he realizes the kind of pull he has on me, but… Fuck, I think I have a pull on him, too.

I push off the table, closing the space between us. When I stop just in front of him, he doesn’t move. Like he’s testing me. Like he wants to see if I’ll take the final step on my own.

I don’t.

So he does.

His hand lifts, slow and deliberate, like he’s offering me a chance to run while I still can. I don’t. His fingers brush the inside of my palm—barely a touch at all. And yet, I feel it.

Just like with Talon.

A slow heat blooms beneath his fingertips, creeping up my arm, threading into my chest like invisible strings pulling me toward something I don’t understand. He doesn’t grab me. Doesn’t force me closer. But then—then—he stands up.

Which would be fine, except… He’s so tall.

Was he always this tall?

“Try to squeeze my hand,” he murmurs. “And look into my eyes.”

I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry as a desert. Once upon a time, when I was alive, I thought of myself as a happy woman. I had a handsome, successful husband who took care of me. He wasn’t the most intimate man, but he was resolute.

I found that attractive.

But no amount of resolution could compare to the way Nathaniel looks at me now. Like he’s deciding if he wants to consume me spiritually or biblically.

“Focus on my soul,” he whispers. “Search for it.”

At first, all I can search for are his very real, very distracting features. The way one of his eyes is slightly lighter than the other. The tiny mole beneath his right one. The freckles dusted so lightly under them they’re barely visible. The bruised-peach color of his lips. The way his tongue flickers against his lip ring like he’s tasting the air between us just to be annoying.

But then… then I search deeper.

I close my fingers around his, grip his hand, and reach for the part of him that I shouldn’t be able to touch at all.

His soul.

The sensation slams into me like a tidal wave.

My breath hitches. My head spins. It’s there—his soul, his essence, whatever the hell you want to call it. And it’s so much more than I expected.

It’s not cold. It’s not empty.

It burns .

I gasp, my grip tightening involuntarily. I brace myself for darkness, for something cruel and jagged—like his murder count, his manipulation tactics, the way he looks at me like he wants something he shouldn’t. But that’s not it at all.

His soul isn’t monstrous.

It’s furious .

Not just anger. Not just vengeance. No, this is the raging, biblical, fire-and-brimstone, entire-city-gets-smote-from-the-sky type of wrath. The kind that’s been burning so long it doesn’t even know what calm feels like anymore.

And buried within that wrath, in the very eye of it—

Grief.

A deep, aching grief that should’ve faded a long time ago but still hasn’t. Because Nathaniel can’t let go. He can’t forget. And somewhere inside, he’s still that boy who lost his mother. The boy who thought he could make a difference, only to find out the people meant to save lives were the ones taking them. The boy who once believed in something, before it all fell apart.

I feel every bit of it.

And it feels like drowning.

I rip my hand away, staggering back so fast I nearly fall. My whole body shakes. My breath is ragged. My chest hurts—phantom pain, impossible pain because I don’t even have a heart anymore and yet somehow it’s hammering in my ribs like it’s trying to escape.

Nathaniel is still standing there, watching me. His face is unreadable, but his fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s debating whether to reach for me again or just let me marinate in whatever the hell I just experienced.

“Did you see it?” he asks, voice smooth, too damn collected for a man whose soul feels like an open wound.

I don't answer. I don't know how to answer. Did I feel his crimes? What I felt didn't feel like crimes at all. His karma is negative, sure, but… it wasn’t ugly .

“Well?” he prompts.

How the hell can he be so goddamn collected when inside he's a walking tragedy?

I drag in a breath, force myself to focus.

He’s a bad man, Skye. He trapped you against your will.

“I saw… you,” I admit. “But I took my hand away so fast, I…”

Something flickers across his face. There, then gone.

“Try doing it again,” he says. “From afar.”

I shake my head, trying to push past the residual ache in my chest.

“Give me a minute. That was—” I cut myself off, rubbing a hand over my face. “That was a lot.”

“I bet there’s more where that came from,” he says.

I freeze. Excuse me?

That sounded suspiciously like a joke.

“It’s not funny,” I argue.

“I beg to differ.”

I stare at him.

This man just let me deep-dive into his soul trauma, and he’s acting like it’s mildly inconvenient at best, an inside joke at worst. If someone ever did that to me—saw my soul, cracked me open like a goddamn pinata, and took a good look at the wreckage inside—I’d be curled in a ball questioning my entire existence.

But him? He’s standing here like I just read him his horoscope. He even wants me to do it again.

I drag a hand through my hair, still reeling from what I felt.

Fucking hell.

“Alright,” I mutter, rubbing my palms against my thighs like that’ll help ground me. “Let’s try again.”

This time, I don't touch him. I'm trying to do it from afar.

Now that I know what I’m looking for, I reach—not with my hands, but with something deeper. I sink into that quiet place inside me, the same one that let me slip inside him before.

And I search.

At first, there’s nothing.

But then—I think about his blue eyes, his long black hair, the way he smells like antiseptic and lemon.

And just like that, it happens again.

It’s fainter this time—less like getting hit by a tide of emotion, more like dipping my toes into the pond of his misery. But it’s still there. That same storm, that same fire. The weight of grief pressing against me like unseen hands, curling around my throat, squeezing tight.

I back off before I sink in too deep.

“Well?” he asks, voice low.

I open my mouth. Close it. Swallow hard.

“You’re…” I hesitate, running my tongue over my teeth, trying to find the right words.

How the hell do I explain that his soul feels like a painting left in the rain, like a symphony played on broken strings, like a goddamn star collapsing inward?

I don’t. I can’t.

“You’re…” I try again, tongue flicking against my teeth in frustration.

“You’re loud.”

He smirks. Smirks .

Which one is it today?

“Loud?” he echoes, clearly entertained.

“Ugh.” I groan, scrubbing a hand down my face. “Nevermind. It worked. That’s all that matters, right?”

He watches me for a beat, then nods once.

“Good job,” he murmurs. Too soft. Too approving. “Then let’s see if you can do it with her.”

Right. Laura Collins. The Candy Maker.

I turn my attention to the photograph on the table, staring hard at her face. Kind eyes. A warm smile. A person who, on the surface, looks like she loves her neighbours and volunteers at shelters.

I highly doubt that diving into her soul will feel anything like diving into Nathaniel’s.

I close my eyes, let my mind sink into that same space, stretching outward—toward the picture, toward whatever might be lurking behind that carefully crafted kindness.

And this time—

I feel something, too.

It’s faint, like an echo.

But it’s wrong.

A slow, creeping sickness crawls through my gut. Not grief. Not fury. Not even loneliness.

Just rot .

My breath catches. I sit up straighter, fingers twitching on the tabletop.

Nathaniel notices immediately. “What is it?”

I swallow. How do I explain it?

“She’s…” My voice falters. I shake my head, trying to shake off the feeling slithering beneath my skin. “It’s hollow. Like… all kindness is missing from her.”

Nathaniel doesn’t speak, waiting.

I exhale sharply. “Like someone scooped her out and left a shell behind. She’s… a bad person, Nathaniel.”

His gaze sharpens. “Did she kill?”

I focus harder, let the feeling settle, let it seep into my bones the way Nathaniel’s did.

But this?

This is different.

This is cold.

Soulless.

Hollow.

Cruelty.

“She killed,” I whisper. “And she didn’t feel a thing.”

Nathaniel’s jaw shifts. “How many?”

I shake my head, bile creeping up my throat. My gut twists, sick with something deep, something ugly.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But it’s… a lot.”

I think of her victims. Children that should’ve had futures. People who should’ve been safe. The warmth of life snuffed out by hands that never once hesitated.

A shudder rolls through me. I’ve felt grief. I’ve felt rage. I’ve felt agony that never fades.

But this?

This is the absence of everything.

“She’s worse than you,” I murmur.

I don’t mean it as an insult. It’s just the truth. The difference between them is vast, like the difference between a wildfire—violent, consuming, devastating—and a black hole that simply devours.

Nathaniel tilts his head. “Oh?”

“You’re…” I struggle to find the words. “You feel . Your soul isn’t clean, but it’s—it’s real. It burns.” My throat tightens. “But hers? It’s cold. There’s no fire, no grief. No anger.”

His expression shifts. Just slightly.

“There’s nothing,” I continue, my voice quieter now. “Like she isn’t even human.”

I look back down at the picture, staring into Laura Collins’ frozen, smiling face. I wonder how many people saw that expression and thought she was kind. How many people trusted her. How many people died because of it.

“How does she kill her victims?”

I shake my head.

“I don't think I can see that far,” I tell him.

“If you can't, that's fine,” he replies. “But the more we know, the better.”

He’s right.

I squeeze my hands into fists, willing the lingering sensation of Laura Collins' hollow soul to fade. But Nathaniel's right. If I just dig a little deeper, if I give them a little more information…

They’ll kill her faster.

And a person like her shouldn’t walk among the living.

“She’s methodical,” I say, rubbing at my temples. “She’s putting something into her candies… Something that doesn’t break down in the cooking process. Then she waits. Lets the effects kick in. And watches them die. From afar.”

His jaw tenses even more.

“What poison is it?”

“Something special. Something tailored.” I press my fingers against my temples, trying to sift through the sensation, through the echoes of what she’s done. “It doesn’t act right away. It lets them linger. Maybe hours, maybe days. She makes sure they suffer.”

Nathaniel watches me closely. “Does she kill at random?”

I shake my head. “No. There’s a pattern.” I exhale sharply. “She picks her victims carefully. The pretty ones.”

He licks his lips. “Alright, Skye. I'm going to name a couple of substances that might fit. Tell me if anything rings a bell, okay?”

I nod.

“Ricin?”

I close my eyes, stretching out toward the sensation again. I shake my head.

“Aconitine?”

I pause. It feels… close. But not quite right.

“Maybe,” I say hesitantly.

“Tetrodotoxin?”

I tense.

There.

It’s like a flicker of recognition, buried in the empty rot of her soul.

“Yes,” I whisper. “That one.”

His fingers flex at his sides.

“Interesting choice,” he muses. “Paralysis. Suffocation. Death by complete, creeping stillness. It prolongs suffering. Leaves the victim completely aware while their body shuts down.” He smirks slightly. “And, in small enough doses, it won’t even show up in standard toxicology reports. Perfect for someone who wants to kill in plain sight.”

I shudder. “Great. Love that. Nothing like a psycho with a scientific approach to murder.”

He cocks a brow. “You should find a lot to love in me then.”

“Oh, really? Why’s that?”

His smirks wider.

His smirk widens. “Because I’m about to give her a taste of her own medicine. And you… you’re coming with me.”