Page 4 of Forgotten (The Soulbound #1)

In all five years I’ve spent as a Grim Reaper, nothing like this has ever happened to me. Nothing in the mortal world has ever had the power to hold me in place. No human has ever been able to hear me. No one has ever seen Pain.

And never—not once—has my scythe, the very tool that guides souls to the afterlife, been visible to someone who’s still a part of the living world.

But now, all of that is happening at once. Twice over, even. It's not just one human who can see me—it's two.

“This… this can’t be happening,” I stammer, turning to Pain, desperate for some reassurance.

Pain and I are in this together—the raven and I have been entwined from the moment I became what I am. It has always seemed to know more than I do, guiding me in ways I don't fully understand.

I was once told that the raven isn’t separate from us Grim Reapers. It’s not a pet, a companion, or even a guide, though I often blame it for every pull I feel toward lost souls. Pain is something more. It is my tether, my shadow—an extension of myself, torn loose and given form. It exists within me, but it’s also outside me, walking beside me, binding me to my purpose.

It cannot act beyond my own abilities. It moves as I do, urging me toward what I must face, ensuring I fulfill my duty. And when I falter—when I panic as I do now—Pain feels it too.

Its feathers fluff slightly, talons tightening on the table. But it does not move. It only stares.

And that unsettles me more than anything.

Because if Pain—my tether, my shadow—doesn’t know what’s happening...

Then neither do I.

Really, even deep down, I have no freaking clue what’s going on.

Foxface taps a gloved finger against the table, right next to the poor man still gasping for breath. The sound is so sharp, so deliberate, it cuts through the fog of my senses. Even with my grip tight on the scythe, even with every part of me locked onto the dying soul, I hear it.

“Is it finally sinking in?” he asks. And I know, without a doubt, that question is meant for me.

Sinking in? Yeah. If only.

Apparently, I feel things now.

The first thing I feel is dread. Can’t say I missed it. It was both a friend and a foe when I was alive, and now it wraps around my spine, settles heavy in my chest, and tightens its grip. All because I realize a simple truth.

I'm powerless here.

Somehow, these men have found a way to paralyze me.

But the second thing I feel is even worse. So much worse.

Curiosity .

And that, I haven’t felt in a long, long time.

“What are you?” I manage to ask, my gaze flicking between them. Then, without thinking, I glance at the dying man on the ground, suddenly wondering—can he see or hear me too?

As soon as my gaze lands on the fading soul, the bigger man—Cassian—snaps his fingers, pulling my attention back to him.

“He can’t see you,” he says. “And he can't hear you.”

My brows knit together. A… mind reader?

My memory drags me back to my Grim Reaper initiation five years ago. I wasn’t the only one given the offer—to guide human souls to the afterlife in exchange for something we all desperately wanted. Back then, they explained how it worked. How every human had a predetermined lifespan. How fate made sure souls were reaped at the right moment.

They taught us about scythes, the journey beyond, and how death was simply part of the cycle.

But they never mentioned beings who could see us. Hear us. Read our thoughts.

As far as I know, only Grim Reapers can exist in the void—the thin barrier between life and death—without withering away.

A spark of fear ignites deep within me, and I narrow my eyes at the man.

“What are you?” I ask again, my voice stronger this time. “How can you see me?”

Cassian doesn’t answer. He just watches me with that same dissecting stare. But Foxface? He clicks his tongue, raising an amused eyebrow like I’ve said something ridiculous.

“Wrong question,” he says slowly, dragging the words out.

The lantern at the base of my scythe flickers wilder.

Foxface tilts his head. “Oh, Grim. That’s not what you should be asking.”

The way he says “ Grim” —like it’s a nickname, something cute —makes my skin crawl.

I clench my jaw. “Then what the hell should I be asking?”

His grin stretches wider. Pushing off the table, he strides toward me with a smooth, a little too damn ingratiating ease. As he moves, I catch the way his muscles shift beneath his dark clothing—broad shoulders, strong legs, lean through the middle. He has a body built for both speed and power.

He stops just inches away, so close that if I were still alive, I’d feel his breath ghosting over my skin. So close I can see the glint in his one good eye—a deep green that, in the glow of my lantern, fades to the color of ash.

“You should be asking,” he whispers slowly, “what do we want from you?”

The words sink in like hooks.

What do they want from me?

I hadn’t even thought someone might want something from me. I should’ve, but I didn’t. I’ve been without self-preservation for so long that fear barely registers anymore. A Grim Reaper doesn’t fear anything. I have no predators. No hidden dangers. Nothing that can bring about my end.

Nothing but time.

Time is my only enemy. My only vice. I both crave and resent its passage—fighting to endure it while longing for it to slip through my fingers like sand.

But now—now—I’m not as invincible as I thought. Am I?

Because suddenly, time isn’t the only thing I need to fear.

These men want something from me.

“What do you want from me?” I ask quietly. There shouldn’t be much to want from a being like me. At least, that’s what I’ve always believed.

Clearly, I was wrong.

Because that look on Foxface’s face? It's pure excitement.

He leans in—just slightly—just enough for his scent to cut through the blood-soaked air and coil around me like a ghostly touch. It’s musky and sweet, with the sharp bite of metal and the clean sting of soap and aftershave. The contrast unnerves me—like something innocent, tangled up with something sinister.

And then he speaks.

The way he says it makes something stir inside me. Something deep. Dark. A little too wild to be just fear, a little too reckless to be curiosity. An instinct buried deep within. A response.

“We want you to break the rules, Little Grim.”

If I could step back, I would. But instead, my breath disappears into nothing, my lips part as I stare at him—really stare, like I haven’t seen another person in years.

“Break the rules?” I ask. “What does that even mean?”

Grim Reapers don’t have rules the way the living do. There is only the pull—the inexorable call to reap—and the cold, hard truth that if we don’t do our job, we lose the only advantage we have against those who have wronged us.

That’s not a rule. That’s just… the way things are . The way it’s always been.

So what the hell is he talking about?

“Let's just say we need a liaison,” Cassian says. “Something that can live between the worlds the way you can.”

A liaison.

A something.

Not a being. Not a creature. Not even a damn Reaper. Just a thing —a tool to be used.

A cold shock jolts through me. My fingers twitch at my sides.

This has to be a joke. Some twisted, impossible joke. I must have flickered too hard, slipped through some crack in reality, and ended up in a nightmare instead of the basement where the soul is supposed to be reaped.

“No,” I say, the word leaving me like the scrape of a blade against bone. “Whatever you want, no. I disagree.”

Neither of them looks surprised.

“Told you it's never been caught before,” Foxface mutters, stepping back so fast the pool of blood beneath him splashes, sending thick, dark droplets flying. The blood hits the air, streaking toward me—only to pass right through my form, vanishing before it even touches me.

My jaw clenches. It feels like my whole being tightens with another all-too-familiar forgotten emotion—anger.

“ It's scared,” Foxface sneers.

The heat flares through me so fast, I nearly flicker again.

“ It is not scared,” I say, my voice low. “ It will not listen to a couple of deranged mortals.”

I glance at the table. The man is still struggling, his body shaking as he fights for every breath. His chest rises and falls in desperate, frantic gasps. He is dying —and these two are standing here, smirking like they have all the time in the world.

I turn back to them, pulse thudding in my head like a deafening phantom echo.

“You two are killers .”

Foxface laughs, sharp and bitter, but it dies just as fast as it starts. He tilts his head, lips curling downward.

“Oh, so it has morals.” He nods once, thoughtful in the worst kind of way. “That's interesting. It might not want to work with us because of morals . How unexpected is that?”

But Cassian doesn't seem to care. He doesn’t sneer or even acknowledge me. He just shrugs and checks his watch. It’s black. Plastic. Cheap. Nothing like the sleek, expensive ones my ex-husband wears. But this one—this one’s practical. Easy to wash the blood off.

“Doesn't matter,” he says. His voice is flat and indifferent, as if a man isn’t drowning in his own failing body in front of him. “Nathaniel should be here any minute.”

Nathaniel? Who the hell is Nathaniel?

My head spins, my thoughts getting tangled. What the hell is going on?

Confusion creeps in, thick as fog, wrapping around me, choking me. I know this feeling all too well. A lifetime of being left in the dark, lied to, piecing together bits of truth that were never meant for me. And now, even in death, I’m right back here. Helpless. Lost.

And I hate it.

More than that, I hate these two men.

All I want is to go back to my willow tree. To curl up in my quiet, invisible corner of the world and watch him . I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be seen by these men, don’t want to exist in their gaze, don’t want to be locked in place.

But more than anything, I don’t want to keep watching this man break down with no one to show him mercy. That's not what being a Grim Reapers is supposed to be about.

“Please,” I say before I can stop myself. “At least do something for him. He's suffering .”

For a fleeting second, I think I see something shift in Cassian’s expression. A flicker of something human, something real. And for that same fleeting second, I almost believe—

Almost.

Because some fragile, forgotten part of me must have still thought these men were capable of empathy.

If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have bothered to ask.

And I wouldn’t feel the slow, creeping horror that settles in as I remember—

They’re the ones who put him in this state.

And they have no intention of letting him go.

Foxface’s mouth twists with a devilish smile, sharp and pleased. Cassian just watches me from beneath his thick lashes.

“Don't worry,” he says. “We will.”

Pain digs its claws into the table. It wants me to leave.

I need to leave.

But I can’t .

“I need to reap his soul,” I say, feeling the pull of duty somewhere beneath the weird sensations I feel. “His life has clearly come to an end. It's time for me to take him to the beyond.”

“You will do no such thing,” Foxface disagrees. “This man belongs to us.”

I'm speechless.

“Belongs to you?” The words barely leave my lips.

Belongs to them?

Souls don’t belong to anyone—not to the living, not to the dead. They follow the rules of fate, of time, of death itself.

“That’s not how this works,” I say.

Foxface's smile doesn't waver. The green of his eye flashes with something raw and dangerous. “Maybe not in your little Reaper rulebook, but we’re not playing by your rules, sweetheart.”

A chill slithers down my spine.

What? No—no, this is nonsense.

I know the pull, the call of a departing soul. I know when it's time. And this man—his soul should be leaving, should be slipping away even now. His body is failing, his breaths turning shallow, erratic, wet. Any second now, any moment—

“You can’t stop me,” I say. “I will take his soul whether you like it or not.”

“We can’t stop you?” Cassian murmurs, tilting his head. “Really?”

His tone slides under my skin. I chose to ignore him, looking at the dying man, studying him, searching for the telltale unraveling of life. When I came here, I expected his soul to slip free within moments—seconds, at best.

Just like now.

But here I am. Minutes have passed. Too many minutes.

And his soul hasn’t moved.

His body is dying, but his soul—

His soul is still stuck.

It’s not just lingering. It’s trapped .

Just… like me?

My pulse pounds in my ears as I whip my head toward the two men—toward their calm, uncaring stances, the cruel amusement in their eyes.

They know.

They know what’s happening. They’re the ones doing this. They’re stopping the cycle, holding his soul hostage.

“You’re keeping him here,” I whisper. “You’re stopping his soul from moving on.”

Foxface claps his hands slowly, mockingly, like I’ve finally figured out the obvious game they’ve been playing the whole time.

“Took you long enough.”

Yes. That feeling clawing its way through my ribs, coiling in my gut, burning through my veins—it is anger. I didn’t imagine it. Worse, it’s rage. A hot, helpless fury that tastes like iron on my tongue.

“Death is inevitable,” I grit out.

“Maybe,” Foxface hums. “And maybe no one’s ever figured out how to stop it before.”

“This is wrong. You can't possibly understand wha—”

I don’t get to finish.

The pull hits me like a freight train. It doesn't just hurt—it tears me apart. Agony explodes through me, white-hot and all-consuming, like my very soul is being shredded from the inside out. My breath cracks. My knees slam into the ground with a sickening crunch. My spine arches back, my body twisting like a puppet whose strings have been yanked too hard.

It’s too fast. Too much. There's no time to prepare, no moment to even think—only the raw, unrelenting pain .

A piercing, earsplitting caw rips through the air. Pain—the raven, my tether, my shadow—flares its wings wide before it plummets to the floor. It feels it too.

I scream, but the sound isn’t human—it’s torn from me, a feral, broken thing, somewhere between a snarl and a sob.

“What's happening to it ?” I hear Foxface's voice through it all.

Footsteps rush toward me. Shadows move. Someone crouches beside me, another leans in closer. But I can’t look at them. I can’t do anything. My body betrays me, crumpling forward, my trembling fingers catching against the blood-slick floor.

It’s never been like this before. The pull has never been this strong.

I've also never failed to reap a soul.

Through the agony, I hear them.

Foxface. Cassian. The men who caused this.

Close. Too close.

“What's going on?” One of them demands.

I can’t answer. I can barely think. I barely even exist.

And yet…

“The… soul,” I gasp, the words barely making it past my lips. “It's… calling .”

A sharp shuffle. Someone moves.

And then—just like that—the pain stops.

Slowly, I lift my head.

Foxface is watching me, crouched so close I could reach out and grab him by the collar if I wanted to. The grin is gone from his face, and now he just watches me.

Cassian stands behind him, arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Better?” he asks.

My mouth opens but no words come out. Instead, I push myself to my feet and turn to look at the man on the table. He's… dead. Just like that. But I haven't reaped his soul. I couldn't have. Which means…

“Did you just do something to his soul?” I ask before I can stop myself. My voice is hoarse, as if there was not enough air in my lungs. As if I had lungs.

Foxface and Cassian exchange a look. It’s subtle, like a silent understanding between them, like they’ve known each other for ages. Cassian doesn’t speak. But Foxface smiles again—this time, it’s different.

Not amused. Not mocking. Not playful.

Real.

“Apparently, we just saved you from a lot of pain,” he says. “Good to know.”

“It also makes you indebted to us,” Cassian adds.

But if they think I can just let the disappearance of the soul slide like that, they're wrong.

“Where is his soul?” I press, panic rising inside me again.

Souls can't just go unreaped. They don’t simply vanish. The balance between life and death is a very delicate thing, and even the smallest disruption could have disastrous consequences. I know this. Every Grim Reaper knows this.

So where is the soul? I need to reap it as quickly as possible.

“It's safe,” Cassian says.

“ Safe ?” I echo, confused.

Then he does something I never expected. He pulls out a glowing object from his pants pocket and holds it up, pinching it between his index finger and thumb. It glows just like the soul would if it left the body, but…

What the hell is that?

“I don't understand,” I breathe out.

The corner of his lips twitches as he throws the round object up and catches it again.

“You don't have to,” he says. “Just know that this soul is not your problem anymore.”

“So, will you work with us?” Foxface asks suddenly.

And that's when I realize that these men and I will never understand each other. Never.

I glance back at the corpse. The pull that brought me here is gone. There’s nothing left for me to reap. The man’s soul should have passed into my hands, should have followed the path I carved for it into the afterlife.

But instead…

It was taken.

Stolen .

Ripped away by something outside the rules of death itself.

For the first time in five years, I have failed to do my job as a Grim Reaper.

And the worst part? I'm still being held hostage. Apparently, it was not the soul that kept me locked in here. It was them.

And that's the worst news I could get.

Because no matter what happens next, I know one thing. I am at their mercy .

The next time the pull comes, for some other soul dying in my area, all I can do is fall to my knees and wait for the pain to fade.

Unless I work with them.

And really, I’ve felt enough pain in my life. I’m done with it.

So, breaking the rules it is.

I don’t really have a choice.