Page 17 of Forgotten (The Soulbound #1)

The night lingers in my bones.

I spent the entire night lurking in the abandoned hospital, and now the men are finally waking up.

Talon is the first to appear, stepping into the common room with a towel draped over his shoulders and nothing but khaki pants on. His torso? Completely bare.

And I? Completely unprepared.

He is not helping my newfound, highly inconvenient lust for him. Neither am I, because I cannot stop staring at him like my brain just deleted the function for looking away and he’s the only available focal point in the entire damn universe.

Talon notices. Oh, he definitely notices.

“Mm,” he purrs, strolling toward me. “Now that's how I want to be greeted in the morning.”

I say nothing. I am too busy committing his abs to memory. And apparently, he enjoys this a lot, because he tosses the towel onto a chair like he’s unveiling a goddamn masterpiece and stops in his tracks.

“Don’t be shy, Little Grim,” he murmurs. “Ogle away.”

That snaps me out of it. Just a little.

I manage to roll my traitorous eyes and wrench them back up to his smug, self-satisfied face before I make things even worse for myself.

“I wasn’t ogling,” I say, hoping the blatant lie will go unnoticed.

Talon smirks. Damn it.

“Oh? Then what were you doing?”

Think, Skye. Think .

“Um, trying to figure out how your ribs haven’t collapsed under the weight of your ego?” I deadpan.

His smirk widens. I regret everything.

Before he can make this worse, I turn toward the window. Outside, an unsettling amount of crows are loitering. Some perch on the rusted fence, others on the cracked pavement, and a few do ominous aerial circles like they’re waiting for someone to drop dead.

All of them are staring. At me .

Talon follows my gaze, and—miracle of miracles—his smug expression falters.

“That’s new,” he mutters.

“Yeah,” I say, watching as a few tilt their heads in eerie unison. “Crows gather if I stay in one spot too long.”

He steps up behind me, close enough that his body heat seeps through my clothes.

“Creepy little bastards,” he murmurs, resting an arm against the wall beside me. “I like them.”

I glance up at him. This morning, he smells like mint soap and warm skin.

“You're very distracting,” I tell him, trying to move away without touching. “And that’s not going to pass around here much longer. You should work on that.”

“Why?”

“Because apparently, I need a godlike level of concentration to reach the souls of murderers,” I say, dead serious. “I did it last night. Got to see if the Candy Maker is actually a murderer.”

That gets his attention. I don’t know if it’s because I just admitted his presence makes me clinically insane or because I pulled off something I didn’t know I could.

“Oh?” He steps back, turns around, and walks over to the couch. Correction: he flops down. His chest muscles bounce .

I cross my arms, leaning against the wall. “She’s a serial killer. Not once, not twice. The woman has a body count that’d put some of you to shame. A perfect target for you guys.”

Something about the way I say it unsettles me. I’ve accepted their nature too quickly, too easily. These men toe the line between life and death, treating morality like a vague suggestion.

They should scare me. I should be disgusted.

Then again… I’ve always known how to pick my company, haven’t I?

“You say that like you’re not one of us, Little Grim.” Talon winks. “But this kill will be just as much yours as ours.”

I press my lips together, unwilling to take the bait. I’m not one of them. I just… exist near them.

But that argument is getting harder to win.

Before I can respond, a thunderous flutter of wings pulls our attention back to the window. More crows have gathered, their numbers multiplying like the little bastards are part of some unholy bird cult.

They pack in tight, filling the fence, the roof, the crumbling remains of the ambulance bay.

I exhale sharply. “Give me a minute. I’ll step outside, take Pain with me, and they should clear out.”

Talon tilts his head. “What, they like being around you but don’t want to touch you?” His grin turns sharp. “Why, Little Grim, you and them are just like you and us.”

I roll my eyes. “Real funny.”

Without another word, I walk toward the wall, shut my eyes, and wish myself through it. My body siphons through the solid surface, depositing me outside.

And I immediately regret it.

From the inside, it looked like a lot of crows. From the outside? It’s an actual writhing mass of black feathers, sharp beaks, and beady, watchful eyes.

Like a biblical plague, or something.

They don’t scatter when I step through the wall. If anything, they settle in deeper.

Something is wrong.

“Pain,” I murmur, and almost immediately, my raven appears by my side.

With one powerful beat of its wings, Pain takes to the sky, casting a huge, dramatic shadow over the smaller birds. It’s bigger than the crows, sleeker, meaner.

More… royal.

The crows react immediately. Some let out sharp caws. Others shuffle on their perches. But none of them leave.

If anything, they regard Pain with reverence.

A slow prickle of unease creeps up my spine.

The crows have always followed me, but never like this. Never this many. Never so fixated.

And they always left when Pain showed up.

But now? They’re holding their ground.

Pain flaps his wings once—a sharp, commanding motion. A few of the smaller birds flinch, feathers ruffling as if disturbed.

But still, they don’t leave.

I take another step, my fingers tightening at my sides.

“Go,” I command, voice steady.

Pain lets out a deep, resonant caw—a sound that usually sends the crows scattering.

This time, the response is… delayed.

The crows ripple like a wave, feathers bristling, claws scraping against metal and stone. Some take off in a chaotic flurry of wings, spiraling into the sky.

But others? Others hesitate. Others stay.

Some even lean in.

I really, really don’t like that.

Pain has to do at least three more dramatic passes overhead before the last of the stubborn crows finally accept defeat. Slowly, like a receding tide, they begin to scatter.

Only once they’re all gone do I turn back toward the hospital.

And that’s when I notice him.

Nathaniel stands in the doorway, arms crossed, watching me like he’s been there for who knows how long.

“Good morning,” he says, voice even. Casual. Like I’m still a person with a normal circadian rhythm and not a glorified ghost stuck in a murder house.

I squint at him. “Another day bound to you, huh?”

He smiles. Slow. Knowing. The kind of smile that should come with a contract and a pen filled with my own blood. Then, without a word, he steps back inside.

My heart stirs. Useless. Broken. A disaster of a thing, really.

Is it because we spent an ungodly amount of time together last night? Is it because suddenly, he’s not just that stupid, cruel murderer in my eyes anymore? Or is it because he came outside just to tell me hello—even though I’m, by all definitions, a prisoner to him? A wisp of nothing, as Cassian so eloquently put it, and yet… he still cares ?

I don’t know. I don’t know if I’ll ever know.

Still, I'd prefer to fight it.

Still, I don’t seem to have a way to.

“Where’s Cassian?” I ask as I step through the doorway and take in the room. Lingering unease because we’re about to go hunt a murderer today? Check. One brooding, angry-looking mountain of a man? Mysteriously absent.

“He hasn't come down yet,” Nathaniel answers.

“Down? He’s staying somewhere on the higher floors?” I move to the window, peering up at the hospital’s upper levels. Most of the windows are shattered or coated in grime. The entire top half of the building looks like it would surrender to a strong breeze.

The idea of Cassian willingly choosing to sleep up there is… interesting.

“He’s got a thing for heights,” Nathaniel says, settling into a chair. “Or maybe he just likes being hard to reach.”

I scoff. “Sounds about right.”

Talon, still sprawled on the couch like a lazy housecat, props his head up with an arm. “He’ll come down when he’s ready—or when we go up there and drag his broody ass down.” His smirk sharpens. “Wanna volunteer, Little Grim? You’re the only one who doesn’t get tired walking up stairs.”

“Hard pass.” I lean against the wall again. “I'm not your errand girl.”

Nathaniel chuckles, low and deep, as he flicks a stray piece of lint off his sleeve. Again, I can't get over him smiling and laughing so casually like this. My heart does an undignified, traitorous little flip.

“What if we ask you real nice, Skye?” He rolls the words over his tongue like he’s undressing a favor rather than requesting it. That manipulative, well-practiced sort of sweet. The type that probably convinced a few unfortunate souls to sign away their life savings before realizing the ink never dried.

I narrow my eyes at him, arms still crossed. “I don’t think there’s a version of ‘real nice’ that would make me fetch your grumpy pet serial killer—who, by the way, doesn’t even think I’m a real person.”

Nathaniel hums, entirely unbothered.

“Even if I promise that right after we catch the Candy Maker, we’ll focus solely on your husband?”

That gets me. I don't move, don't blink, just let his words sink in.

By the looks of it, Nathaniel already knows I'm deep in.

“ Ex -husband. Till death do us part, right?” I correct, too quickly. “Why don’t you do it yourself?” I murmur, letting my gaze skim over him. Today, he’s wearing something a little more… fitted. Still black as night, but this time, no flowy fabrics. Just a sharp vest, a tight black shirt, and pants that—unfortunately—leave very little to the imagination.

I hate that I notice.

Nathaniel’s body isn’t built for brute strength like Cassian. Nathaniel’s more lean. He shifts in his seat, and the fabric strains just enough to remind me that this man works out. Like, prison workout levels of dedication.

“Isn’t stair climbing a great workout for you two?” I counter. “You know, build endurance, get those legs moving? I hear it does wonders for longevity. Wouldn’t want you dropping dead before we get to my revenge.”

“I need to start working on the murder substance soon,” Nathaniel says flatly. Like that’s a normal thing people say. “Talon will handle cleanup prep. We could wait until Cassian decides to come down, sure, but the faster we work, the faster we get to your husband.”

I exhale slowly, tapping my fingers against my forearm.

Why does he have to be right with everything?

“Fine. But if he so much as breathes weird in my direction, I’ll find a way to haunt you. Permanently.”

Nathaniel’s lips curve, all slow satisfaction. “I gladly accept.”

Mhm… And here we go again. Another backflip in my chest.

I roll my eyes and turn away before my dead skin can betray me with some tragic attempt at blushing. The last thing I need is for these pale-ass cheeks to out me as flustered. I refuse. I am a corpse, and corpses do not get flustered.

“Oh, and tell him I've got a shopping list for him to pick up,” Nathaniel calls after me. “Make sure he knows it's non-negotiable.”

I scoff but don’t bother responding. I can already hear Talon chuckling behind me.

Whatever. If Cassian wants to play the brooding recluse, that’s on him. I’ll fetch him, but only because the faster we deal with the Candy Maker, the faster I get what I want.

I move through the hospital’s crumbling halls. The further I go, the more the air is thick with dust and the scent of mildew. The area with the stairs and old elevators is the furthest away from the little living room the guys have made out of the hospital’s old entrance.

“The mold situation is seriously tragic here…” I mutter.

I have no idea where Cassian actually nests. It’s not like I asked for directions. But if I had to bet? The highest, most precarious point of this crumbling hellhole.

With that in mind, I start my climb.

Each floor I pass is dustier than the last. There are little signs of life—or, well, serial killer life—here: scuffed dirt, faint imprints of boot heels, and, most notably, the occasional scratch along the walls, like someone’s been casually dragging a knife across the plaster.

Creepy, but okay. What else should I expect from men who cut up people in their free time?

I follow the trail, which, surprise surprise, actually leads to the top floor—with Pain waddling beside me like a judgmental little penguin. As we reach the last floor, right below the rooftop, I squint at the faintly chipped plaque hanging askew above the doorway: psychiatric ward.

With all due respect to the former patients, Cassian really picked the most fitting place to set up shop. Too bad they’re not taking new clients.

I pause past the doorway, eyes skimming the darkened hall. The psychiatric ward somehow looks more ruined than the rest of this already corpse-flavored hospital. Ceiling panels sag with water damage, black mold creeps through the cracks like it's trying to win hide-and-seek, and old wheelchairs sit abandoned, rust eating through the metal. One of them even has straps.

Not exactly prime real estate for anyone with a functioning sense of self-preservation. But Cassian isn’t most people, is he?

“Cassian,” I call, voice low, controlled. I deepen it on purpose, just to be a little extra creepy. “Nathaniel’s got a shopping list for you.”

Silence.

Not unexpected.

I push forward, weaving through the scattered debris. The ward is a mess—old hospital beds overturned everywhere, doors hanging open, revealing padded rooms with walls marred by deep, frantic scratches, others being locked tight, their plaques faded beyond recognition.

I reachI reach the last room in the corridor, and instead of another abandoned crypt of horror movie decor, I find a door that’s weirdly clean. Spotless. A padlock sits heavy on the handle.

Found him.

“Cassian?” I call out. Nothing.

“Cassian?” Again, louder. Still nothing.

“Cassian?” I try one more time, really putting my back into it. If this were a horror movie, this would be the moment the killer got me.

I can’t interfere with the living world, so knocking on the door is out of the question. Still, even if I could, I doubt he’d answer. Hell, I doubt he’d even hear it. Selective hearing and being a bastard seem to go hand in hand.

I sigh and glance at Pain, perched beside me. “I'm going in.”

The raven cocks its head, lets out a soft caw—judgmental, as always—then hops in place and struts toward the locked door. I mean… What other choice do we have? None.

I exhale slowly, already regretting what I’m about to do. But since I came all this way, I might as well commit.

Pressing my palm flat against the door, I close my eyes and siphon through.

The world blurs. A second later, I’m inside.

And then—

Oh. Oh, no.

Cassian is sprawled across an old, stripped-down hospital bed, completely naked.

My brain immediately flatlines.

There were many things I was prepared for—hostility, irritation, maybe even a knife to the face if he was feeling particularly spicy. But this? This was not on my bingo card.

Heat rushes to my face before I can stop it. Every hard plane of his body is laid out in front of me like a work of some twisted, bloodstained artist—scarred, lean muscle shifting with every slow breath he takes.

One of his arms is stretched out behind his head.

The other?

The other is wrapped around his cock.

And worst of all?

His eyes are open.

And he's looking right at me .

My body locks up, but my brain? My brain is running in circles, screaming, setting off fire alarms.

What.

The.

Actual.

Fuck.

I have walked in on a lot of things in my weird, not-quite-dead existence. Murder? Yes. Demon summoning? You bet. But this?

This is a new and horrifying low.

“I—” I clamp my mouth shut so hard my teeth nearly fuse together. I need to leave. I need to leave right fucking now.

“Grim Reaper,” Cassian growls.

Low.

Husky.

Dangerous.

My breath catches. My entire body seizes up at the sound of it—rough, edged with something dark, something primal. I don't even know if he means it as a threat or a greeting or a truly deranged invitation.

All I know is his hand doesn’t stop moving.

And I’m staring at his cock like it’s a live grenade and I’m the idiot standing too close.

My brain is on a full, catastrophic meltdown, but my body is fully ignoring me. But somehow—somehow—there is something even worse happening.

I feel… exactly the same way I did when I touched Talon yesterday. When I looked into Nathaniel’s soul.

Warmth spreads through me, trickling from my head to my toes before settling directly in my lower belly.

“Why are you still staring?” Cassian growls.

Huh?

Um, good question. Great question. I would also like to know.

I try to force my mouth to work, to make any kind of sound—preferably words, but at this point, I’d take a wheeze. Anything to break whatever the fuck this tension is. But my throat is drier than a cursed mummy’s tomb, and my brain? Absolutely not cooperating.

“Grim Reaper,” he repeats, and this time… oh no. Oh no, no, no. There’s something else in his voice.

Lust.

My pulse leaps like it’s trying to escape my body.

My nipples harden underneath my clothes.

No. Absolutely not. This is not happening.

I have dealt with death. I have dealt with watching my husband thrive after murdering me. I have dealt with being stuck with three unhinged serial killers who mess with my head in ways I do not want to unpack.

But this?

This is an affront to every single law of nature, morality, and common goddamn sense I have ever clung to.

I cannot just… want to fuck a serial killer.

I cannot want to fuck anyone.

“What is wrong with me?” I whisper, pressing a hand to my lower belly as the sensation stirs and stirs until I have to bite my lip.

“Stop staring,” Cassian commands.

Somehow, I manage to rip my gaze up to his very irritated, very bitter eyes, but it doesn’t help because I still know what’s happening below.

“I cannot,” I grind out, barely keeping my sanity intact. “Stop jerking off.”

Cassian lets out a grunt—one of annoyance. Annoyance. As if I’m the problem here.

But he keeps going.

As he’s watching me.

It’s like he knows. Like he can see every single embarrassing thought I don’t want to be having. His lips curve just slightly, and that low, husky voice slithers over my skin like a slow, creeping poison.

“You invade my privacy and now tell me what to do?”

A violent shiver rips through me. My fingers twitch at my sides, my brain desperately trying to reboot. I need to run. I need to leave. I need to—

My eyes drift lower again.

Oh.

His chest is covered in little goosebumps, his nipples tight from the cold air. His skin is flushed. His moving hand flexes at an angle that should not be affecting me, but it does, and every muscle on his abdomen ripples with the motion.

A little bit lower than that, he’s… so hard.

And he’s still watching me like he wants to devour me.

“I called for you,” I manage to say, licking my lips. Which is a mistake, because his cock twitches at the sound of my voice.

“The room is soundproof,” he grinds out. His voice breaks at the end, and for a second, I almost forget I dislike him. Almost forget he ever called me a wisp of nothing. Almost forget that I technically have no real body and therefore can’t just walk over there and test the theory of ‘is he as warm as he looks’ for myself.

“I was supposed to fetch you downstairs.”

“So you just… passed through the doors, huh?” He squeezes himself harder, eyes slamming shut for just a moment.

If I didn't know any better, I’d say my presence here turns him on. But that’s impossible, right? Out of the three murderers, Cassian is the one who treats me like an inconvenience—like a ghost lingering at the edge of his reality.

And yet, right now… he’s jacking off like it’s his job, his eyes locked onto me like I’m the only thing keeping him tethered to this world.

Like he wants me.

No. Like he needs me.

“Fuck,” he snarls, his breath ragged now. His head tips back, exposing the sharp line of his throat, the tendons pulled taut, a bead of sweat tracing down the side of his neck.

Was he always this beautiful? Unfortunately, yes. Yes, he was. I just didn’t want to see it.

Even though he's a big man, there’s not a single wasted inch of him. Every part of him looks like it was sculpted with intent. Like some higher power carved him like this—to look like a warrior, a man honed by violence and sharpened by the darkness inside him.

There’s a dark line of hair trailing down his stomach, a sharp triangle disappearing beneath his fingers as he works himself over, thick thighs twitching as his body locks up.

I have never seen a man like him up this close. Not naked. Not this fucking close to—

“You're such a weird fucking thing, Skye,” he breathes.

And… that’s the first time he’s ever said my name.

Not Grim Reaper.

Not a wisp of nothing.

Not you absolute pest.

Skye.

“You need to—” My voice falters. I don’t even know what I want to say. Stop? Finish? Forget this ever happened?

Cassian exhales sharply, his body wound tight, poised on the edge of something devastating. His lips part like he’s about to say something else, something worse, something that might actually ruin me—

And then.

He comes.

The moment it happens, my entire body locks up together with him.

I should leave. I should leave.

I do not leave.

I just stand there, bearing witness to the absolute obscene majesty of it all. Cassian’s muscles go taut, his chest rising and falling in jagged breaths, his hand still wrapped around himself as he spills over his fingers, flushed and completely fucking wrecked.

And God save me.

I feel it.

Not just the heat pooling between my thighs, not just the way my pulse hammers in my throat.

I feel his release like it’s my own, a phantom pleasure tearing through me, something I should not—cannot—be feeling.

My knees nearly buckle.

Cassian drags in a breath, slow and deep, his head rolling against the pillow. His eyes open, still hazy, still dangerous, but laced with something else now—something more like satisfaction.

And me?

I feel like I've just been undone.

Neither of us speaks for a long moment. Then, finally, Cassian reaches over, grabs a tissue, and wipes himself off like it’s nothing. The moment it’s done, it’s like flipping a goddamn switch. His expression hardens, that same cold indifference snapping back into place like a mask he never truly takes off.

“Get out,” he says flatly.

Like I’m the one who just did something obscene. Like I’m the problem here.

The shock is so brutal it feels like my soul left my body again just to escape this conversation. The heat in my veins is drowned instantly by sheer, blistering irritation.

“Excuse me?” I hiss.

“You heard me.” He flicks the used tissue into a rusted bin in the corner, already reaching for his discarded shirt at the foot of the bed. His movements are unbothered. Casual. Like I didn’t just watch him come apart. Like we both didn’t just experience something deeply, cosmically wrong.

“You— I— Ugh.” I press my fingers to my temples, vibrating with the unholy trifecta of embarrassment, rage, and lust. “You’re an absolute asshole,” I finally manage. “I came here to get you because Nathaniel asked me to. Not to—not to witness that. Just so we're clear.”

His lips twitch, but it’s not a smirk. Not quite.

“Then maybe next time, use the lock pad to call me.”

My hands curl into fists. “I don’t have a corporeal body, you dick! Even if I could call, I wouldn’t be able to!”

“Yeah,” he muses, standing up. “You know why? Because you're a ghost, that's why. You don't belong here.”

My teeth grind together so hard I can practically hear them creaking under the pressure.

“I don’t belong here?” I echo, seething. “You’re the one squatting in a rotting psych ward like an escaped case study, treating the place like your own personal padded cell—jerking off to—”

I choke on the words. I physically cannot finish the sentence without self-combusting from sheer secondhand mortification.

His body tenses again. This time, not from pleasure. This time, it’s pure, slow-burning rage.

“You don't know what I was jerking off to,” he growls.

I scoff, crossing my arms. “Oh, please. I might be dead, but I’m not blind. You were looking right at me.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Be careful,” I snap, “or I’ll reap your stupid soul early just to prove this point.”

That shuts him up. His jaw clenches, his eyes narrowing into a glare sharp enough to skin a man alive. Then, with a huff of pure irritation, he yanks his shirt over his head and stands up, all dangerous.

“Get the hell out of my room, Grim Reaper. I'll be right there.”

I want to strangle him. I want to hurl a haunting at his face. But instead, I just turn on my heel and stalk out.

“Fine. Stay here, jerk off, whatever. You're a piece of shit regardless.”

Pain flutters beside me in a dramatic flurry of black wings as I storm down the crumbling hallway, white-hot rage boiling in my chest. But rage isn’t the only thing simmering in me.

And that’s the real problem.

I’m furious. Humiliated. Inconveniently horny.

I storm down the creaky hospital halls, my thoughts an absolute disaster. I should not be replaying what I just saw. I should not be hyper-fixating on the way he—nope. No. Not going there. This is not just about Cassian jerking off in front of me anymore. It’s about all of them messing with my head.

They’re unraveling me.

And the worst part?

I like it.

By the time I make it back to the main room, my heart is still hammering, and my skin is positively sizzling. But I keep my face cold, deadpan, as if I didn’t just have an internal meltdown in the hallway, and, thankfully, this time I manage to hide it.

Talon gives me a once-over, his grin immediately widening. “Took you long enough. Did you find him, or did you get distracted by something else? Ghosts of some patients lingering?”

“I found him,” I bite out. “He's coming down soon.”

Nathaniel glances up from his seat, not missing the tension in my stance. “Everything alright?” he asks, a little too casually.

“Fine,” I say through clenched teeth.

They both exchange a look. Thankfully, they don’t say anything, though.

And Cassian—fucking Cassian—his image lingers in my head way too long, right up until the moment he steps into view.

Even then, it doesn’t let go.

That’s how I know just how deep my lie runs.

Because nothing—absolutely nothing—is fine.

Watching isn’t enough anymore.

I want to be touched .