Page 18 of Forgotten (The Soulbound #1)

Killing a person isn’t as simple as you’d think.

Even when you know what they’ve done. Even when you’ve seen the aftermath of their crimes. Even when you know, in graphic detail, how they murder their victims.

I tell myself this as I watch Nathaniel, who has been in his mad scientist mode for the past hour, meticulously mixing a poison that mimics—down to the molecule—the exact one the Candy Maker used on her victims.

A strange knot tightens in my stomach. Hunting down a murderer is one thing. Knowing their crimes inside and out is another. But actually carrying out the execution? That’s some real commitment to the bit.

Not that this is about a guilty conscience.

No, it’s about the process. Because, apparently, murder requires a ton of preparation. The planning. The timing. The execution. And these guys? These guys treat it like a competitive sport.

Nathaniel doesn’t look up from his little murder potion, his movements as precise as he’s creating something he’s without a doubt deems a masterpiece. Cassian is out in the city, collecting the last few ingredients—probably somehow making illegal poison procurement look boring. Talon? Already breaking into the Candy Maker’s house, because, surprise, surprise—she likes to bring her victims home first. Creepy. Disgusting. Weirdly on-brand.

These guys play the justice system like a rigged casino. And looks like they are not about to lose.

I cross my arms, watching Nathaniel work. “So, what’s the poison going to do?”

He barely acknowledges me, too busy measuring something that definitely shouldn’t be inhaled. “She kills with tetrodotoxin,” he says. “So that’s what she’ll get.” A pause. “With a twist.”

I step closer, already regretting it. “What kind of twist?”

A small, unsettling smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “Normal tetrodotoxin paralyzes its victim gradually. By the time they realize something’s wrong, it’s already too late. But this version?” He lifts the vial, eyes gleaming. “It’s accelerated. Hits fast. Shuts the body down before they even have a chance to react. And the best part?” He tilts the vial, watching the liquid swirl. “The consciousness stays intact for just a few moments longer.”

“Lovely,” I quip, wondering why the hell I even asked.

“Justice isn't merciful, Skye,” he mutters back, narrowing his eyes as he brings the vial up to the light and examines the contents. “The guilty deserve to feel every ounce of what they’ve inflicted on others.”

I snort. “I doubt she’ll feel much from death alone.” I gesture vaguely. “Sure, she was targeting kids, which is already batshit evil, but I think the true victims were the parents.”

Nathaniel sets the vial down with surgical precision and meets my gaze, his expression unreadable.

“You’re right,” he murmurs, voice low. “The parents were the ones who had to live with the aftermath. That’s why, just like before, you will not be reaping the Candy Maker’s soul.”

I freeze.

“What do you mean by that?”

He holds my stare.

“We’ve found a way to torment the killers the way they truly deserve to be tormented.” His fingers drum against the table. “And that requires us taking their souls.”

Well, shit.

I don’t know why I’m still surprised when these men say things that sound straight out of an R-rated paranormal revenge flick, but here we are.

The only upside? The Candy Maker’s shop might be in my jurisdiction, but her house is not. Which means I’ll be there when she dies, but I won’t feel the pull to reap her soul. Small mercies.

Still, it makes me think.

“You guys might lure a different Grim Reaper over,” I mutter, thinking aloud. “What happens then?”

He glances up at me.

“We’ll just have to wing it.”

…Wing it.

I blink at him. Then I laugh, because what the actual hell.

“No elaborate trap?” I raise a brow. “No weird, overcomplicated ritual? You’re not planning to lock them in place so they don’t reap the soul first?”

The corner of his lips twitches.

“Nope. Only you get that special treatment. I told you before, haven’t I?” His voice drops, smooth and smug. “You’re it for us, Skye. Our little Grim .”

And just like that, I suddenly understand how villains must feel when the hero delivers a one-liner before kicking their ass.

I’m getting wrecked .

Then he does it. The thing. The lip thing. Tongue flicks out, tugs at his piercing, eyes glinting like he knows exactly where my gaze just landed.

Oh, he’s doing that on purpose.

I mean… my eyes do jump to his lips whenever he messes with that little metal ring, but for him to outright weaponize it? That’s bordering on psychological warfare. Or… flirting .

When was the last time you flirted with someone, Skye?

My ex-husband wasn’t much of a flirt. Hell, he wasn’t much of anything, except a cold man and a coward. If I had to dig through my tragic backstory, I’d say my last real flirtation happened somewhere between teenage hormones and making the worst life choice of my existence—choosing him.

“Wish I could say you’re my only serial killer,” I muse, letting my gaze linger on his lips. “But unfortunately, I have two others.”

“Unfortunately?” he purrs back. “Why, the more, the merrier.”

I narrow my eyes. “Why would I want more serial killers?”

“Because we’re charming.”

“You guys are a pain in the ass.”

He sighs dramatically, peeling off his gloves like he’s in some slow-motion perfume ad, then slicks a strand of ink-black hair behind his ear.

“Think about it, Skye,” he says, voice as lazy as when he was mixing whatever unholy concoction he’s working on. “We’re men with strong values. We don’t fit into a box, we know how to get what we want, we don’t ask for permission, and we don’t take shit from anyone. That kind of confidence… comes in handy for other things.”

Other things…?

Is he—? No. No way. Who in their right mind flirts with a dead woman?

They can’t even touch me. Not like that, anyway.

…But I’ve always liked imagining things I couldn’t have.

I cross my arms, trying to look unimpressed, despite the way my brain has fully scrambled by now.

“Confidence, huh?” I drawl. “And what exactly would you be doing with all that confidence if I weren’t dead?”

His smirk stretches. “A lot of things.”

“That’s vague.”

“Oh, really?” He tilts his head. “You think you could handle more? Because considering the way you were scared to look into my soul last night, I’d say you couldn’t even handle half of it.”

The feeling in my stomach—that stupid, traitorous, thrilling thing—returns. The one that makes my pulse spike next to him and the others.

It’s both sweet and sour at the same time.

Sweet, because it feels good.

Sour, because I know it’ll kill me all over again.

I want to be touched. And not being touched? That hurts worse than anything.

“I think I'm turning into something else,” I tell him. “I think you've done something to me that's making me lose my grip.”

Nathaniel pauses, tilting his head like a predator sizing up its prey. The air around him shifts—sharper, heavier. And then he steps closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, like he's about to ruin me. Yes. In those ways.

“Do you know why none of us have a woman, Skye?” His gaze pins me in place, dark and consuming. “Because most people can't handle what we are. Because just like you saw inside my soul, we're all starved for something we’ll never have. So forgive me for wanting to make you lose your grip even more. Because as much as I’m a murderer, I’m also a man.”

His lips quirk, something dangerous and knowing lurking beneath the words.

“And that man sees a beautiful, broken woman who’s just like him—and he wants to fuck her into oblivion, even though he can’t. So all he can do is tease.”

My breath catches. My brain… it’s surely leaking out of my ear. My soul might have just left my body.

For a moment, I’m stuck between two very different instincts:

One: Run.

Two: Find out what oblivion feels like.

His stare locks onto mine, and I swear he knows. Knows exactly what he’s doing. Knows exactly how much I want to let him keep doing it.

“Careful,” I warn, but my voice comes out way less threatening than I’d like. “This… This is dangerous.”

More like a breathy, high-stakes ‘oh no, he’s hot’ kind of warning.

Nathaniel grins—slow, sharp, savoring.

Oh, I’m so fucked.

“Danger’s all I know, Skye,” he murmurs. “And I’m not afraid to dance on the edge—especially when the view’s this tempting.”

My hands tremble slightly as I cross them tighter. I open my mouth, prepared to push him away, but the words die on my tongue when he steps forward just enough to close the gap between us, his breath warm against my ear.

“I want to try touching you, Skye,” he murmurs.

“You really think I’ll let you?”

His smirk deepens, sinful and so damn cocky it should be illegal.

“I think you want it even more than I do,” he says. “I think you've never had any real fun while alive. You’ve been waiting for someone like me to show you what it feels like to lose control, but that person never came.”

I want to tell him to fuck off.

I want to tell him he’s wrong.

But I don’t.

Some very, very stupid part of me… wants him to keep pushing. It loves it.

“You don't know me,” I say instead.

“Oh, but I do,” he murmurs. “You were a good girl, weren’t you? The kind who did everything right. Got married young, played the perfect wife. But that perfect little life turned into a nightmare, didn’t it? And now you’re here, dead and restless, surrounded by men who make your pulse race in ways it never did before.”

I open my mouth, searching for something—anything—to throw back at him, but all that comes out is a pathetic, “I wasn’t perfect. I was just… trying.”

“And now you don’t have to try anymore, Skye,” he murmurs, his fingers hovering just shy of my hip, so close I can feel the phantom touch. “No rules. No expectations. We’re all bad men, and we don’t give a damn about what’s right or wrong anymore. We just do what feels good.”

His voice wraps around me, weaving its way into every crack in my armor, every unspoken thought.

“You still can’t touch me,” I remind him, my voice strained. “No matter how badly you want to.”

Nathaniel exhales slowly, his breath fanning over my cheek.

“Maybe not yet,” he concedes, eyes gleaming. “But I’ve broken plenty of impossible rules before. And I’m nothing if not determined.”

Hours later, death is hiding behind sugar and cinnamon.

Yes. That’s exactly where it is.

Across the street, we sit in the parked car, watching the Candy Maker’s shop like the world’s most subtle group of stalkers. The pastel-colored building looks almost disgustingly charming—quaint, even. Flowers spill from the window boxes, their petals trembling in the evening breeze. It’s the kind of place where you’d expect warmth and sweetness to linger in the air.

Not rot. Not death.

But I know better now.

We all do.

Cassian grips the wheel in silence, looking every bit like a brute—a brooding, road-raging man who somehow ended up with a driver’s license. Talon lounges beside him, flipping a butterfly knife between his fingers like it’s a fidget toy and not an actual weapon.

Nathaniel sits next to me, acting like our previous conversation never even happened.

“Think you could feel her up and tell us what she's doing?” he asks, completely straight-faced.

I whip my head toward him, scandalized. “Excuse me?”

“Relax. I meant with your little woo-woo soul-touching thing. Unless you want to do it the old-fashioned way, in which case, be my guest.”

Old-fashioned meaning do what I did with him—slipping inside and touching her with my warm, misty fingers.

Yeah, no. I am not feeling up some creepy old murder hag, spectral or otherwise.

“What am I, a supernatural recon drone now?” I grumble.

Nathaniel smirks. “Just saying, if you wanna be useful…”

I roll my eyes, but the truth is, I was already considering it. My abilities have been shifting in ways I don’t fully understand. I could probably extend my awareness into the shop and check exactly what the woman is up to.

The only question is—do I want to?

“She’s inside,” Cassian cuts in, his tone clipped. “Saw her go in half an hour ago.”

“Laura Collins has one employee in her little death factory. Just a teenage girl who knows nothing about what goes on behind closed doors,” Talon adds, still flipping his knife. “She leaves at eight. We wait until then.”

“That’s in fifteen minutes,” I mutter, checking the clock. “How do you guys plan on ambushing Laura with all these people around?”

The street is still bustling—parents walking with their kids, couples on evening strolls, customers filtering in and out of the shop. From what I’ve gathered, the guys plan to inject Laura with Nathaniel’s custom-made tetrodotoxin and drag her to her own house. But drugging her and getting her there without raising suspicion? I’d love to know what galaxy-brain plan they’ve cooked up.

“We could wait until she gets home herself, sure,” Talon murmurs, casually twirling his knife. If I did that back in the day, I’d cut up my fingers. “But that wouldn’t scare her nearly as much as getting paralyzed in some alleyway, now would it?”

Nathaniel leans back against the seat, watching the shop’s entrance with hooded eyes. “The woman’s predictable. Closes up, locks the doors, exits through the back. If we don’t want to make a mess, that’s where we take her.”

I frown. “Are there no cameras there? How are you gonna get her to the car?”

I glance toward the alley behind the building. It’s dimly lit, but that doesn’t mean it’s completely unwatched. Even a single security camera could make things complicated.

“Talon will cut the feed before we move in. I’ll grab her,” Cassian says.

“You’ll grab her?” I raise a brow.

Cassian is not the stealthiest guy in the group. He’s all brute force and simmering violence. If Cassian’s trying to sneak up on someone, they’re going to hear him three blocks away and instinctively dial 911 before even seeing him.

Nathaniel smirks. “He has a way of being… persuasive.”

Cassian cracks his knuckles, his gaze locked on the shop’s entrance. “She’ll go quietly.”

And there’s something in his tone that makes my spine prickle. Ah, so violence . Their grand plan is to act like a bunch of amateur robbers.

Got it.

I exhale, turning back toward the shop. The teenage girl behind the counter hands a bag of sweets to a customer, flashing a polite, oblivious smile. She has no idea her boss is a serial killer. No idea that in fifteen minutes, said boss will be removed from the equation like an expired coupon.

I should feel satisfied. Or uneasy. Maybe both.

The problem with justice is that it’s messy. The guilty have families. Some have kids who love them. Some have spouses who will mourn them. Some are rich enough to get candlelight vigils and public outcry, while others will disappear without a trace, their names forgotten before the week is over.

Same goes for the victims. Some children are mourned like saints. Others are statistics. Some parents get news headlines, documentaries, nationwide searches. Others just… sit in silence, grieving alone, knowing the world won’t care as much as they do.

No amount of retribution can truly balance the scale. No matter how poetic, no matter how perfect the irony, nothing brings the dead back. Nothing erases grief. All you really do is add another body to the pile and hope the moral math somehow works itself out.

And yet… doing nothing seems like a crime in itself.

I glance at Nathaniel, at the way his eyes gleam with something unreadable, and then at Cassian, who looks like he’s about three seconds away from turning into a cyborg. Talon, for once, is eerily quiet, watching the shop with his knife balanced between his fingers like he’s waiting for the curtain to fall.

They don’t care about balance. Not really. They care about the act —the slow, methodical process of taking apart a life in retribution.

Inside the shop, the teenage girl checks the time, gives a polite nod to her last customer, and starts wiping down the counter before leaving the owner alone.

I guess that calls it.

Nathaniel leans forward. “Talon, you’re up.”

With a grin, Talon slips out of the car, vanishing into the night like a ghost.

I exhale slowly.

One way or another, by the end of the night, the Candy Maker will be no more.

I don’t need to see Talon to know what follows is his doing. The back alley’s single security light flickers—once, twice—before plunging into darkness. Classic horror movie move. Subtle? No. Effective? Absolutely.

Cassian doesn’t wait for confirmation. He steps out of the car without a word. I barely track him before he disappears too. I really don’t know how he’s doing it, but the guy really does blend in. A six-foot-two ninja warrior.

“You nervous?” Nathaniel asks suddenly, his voice all silk and knives.

I scoff, shaking my head. “I don’t get nervous.”

His lips quirk, amused. “No? Then what do you call that little furrow between your brows?”

I exhale sharply, looking away. “Annoyance.”

“Mm.” He hums, unconvinced, then shifts in his seat, tilting his head slightly as he studies me. “You should be nervous, Skye. You're about to watch someone die for the first time while knowing exactly how it's going to happen. And more than that— you're going to see what we do with her soul afterward. You’re taking part in murder.”

A chill runs down my spine, but I mask it with indifference. “And?”

“And,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into that slow, deliberate edge that makes my stomach clench, “you're either going to like it, or it's going to haunt you forever. Either way, you won’t be the same after tonight.”

I don’t respond. Mostly because I know he’s right. But also because I don’t trust my voice not to betray me.

We sit in silence, time crawling by. Then, from the alleyway, I hear it—a muffled sound. Sharp. Cut off. The kind of noise people make when they suddenly realize their life expectancy just dropped to zero.

Cassian.

It happens fast.

The back door creaks open, and Cassian emerges, dragging Laura Collins—The Candy Maker—by the arm. Her body is already slack, her legs wobbling like she’s three shots deep into a bad night. Talon steps out after him, brushing nonexistent dust from his hands.

They pretend she’s drunk.

I mean… it is evening. The sun’s still out. But also… the lady’s a grandma. Not exactly prime “one too many margaritas at the club” material.

How are people not suspicious?

Oh, this is definitely going to bite them in the ass.

“She put up less of a fight than I expected,” Talon comments quietly, adjusting his sleeves.

“Still breathing?” Nathaniel asks, already moving.

Cassian gives a sharp nod, hoisting her up effortlessly like she weighs nothing.

“Then let’s go,” Nathaniel says, voice laced with dark satisfaction. “Time to give her a taste of her own medicine.”

Now, I know what he means. I do. But something about the way he says it makes me deeply concerned that if karma were a person, she’d materialize right here just to slap him across the face.

Maybe I should do it for her.

Because what the actual fuck?

Still, I don’t say anything. I shouldn’t care if the police catch them. My only goal here is simple—get these three lunatics to kill my ex-husband so I can finally haul his ass to the afterlife and get my sweet revenge. Whatever happens to them after? Not my problem.

But I’m calling it now. The cops are gonna chase these guys.

I watch as Cassian shoves Laura into the backseat, her body slumping against the leather like a marionette with cut strings. Her eyes flutter open—barely. There’s a flicker of awareness, sluggish and distant, like her brain is buffering. She tries to move, but… yeah, nope. Her fingers twitch feebly at her sides, her lips barely part, but whatever fight she had in her is long gone.

Tetrodotoxin.

Nathaniel wasn’t kidding when he said his version worked fast.

I inhale slow and steady, forcing myself to really look. Laura Collins—the woman who stole children from their homes, who left parents with holes that would never heal, who treated life and death like her personal playground.

And yet, right now… she’s just a person. Small. Weak. Not some untouchable monster—just another fragile human who got targeted by the wrong people.

Cassian slides into the driver’s seat, casting a single glance at me before starting the car.

No one speaks as we pull away from the curb.

Well. I take back my words. Maybe Karma doesn’t want me to slap these guys after all.

Maybe Karma is a bitch. But lately, she’s been showing up at my door, dressed in leather and delivered by three terrifying men with a taste for vengeance.

Maybe she wants to recruit me, too.