Page 5 of Forgotten (The Soulbound #1)

The plastic cover crinkles as Cassian pulls it back, revealing what’s underneath. A bucket. A paintbrush. A black leather wrapper—one he’s careful not to touch. Then something more concerning.

Industrial-strength cleaning supplies. Hydrogen peroxide mixed with bleach.

And a bone saw.

Garbage bags. Sawdust. More rubber gloves and aprons than I can count. Gas masks.

I exhale slowly.

Psychos. I’ve been trapped by complete psychos.

I watch as Cassian takes a new pair of gloves and grabs the bone saw. Then he kneels beside the body and cocks his head like he’s wondering where to cut first.

If I were human, I’d probably be on my knees and crying already.

“I hope you don’t mind a little dismemberment, Little Grim,” Foxface says. “It makes disposal so much easier.”

I do not react. I wouldn’t even know how. This place looks straight up from some gore horror movie anyway. What’s a little dirty clean-up on top of that?

Cassian doesn’t even look up from his work. He presses the saw to the corpse’s shoulder joint and begins to cut.

There’s... well, not much blood coming from the wound. It looks like most of it has been painted all over these walls and drained from his body long before his death.

The sound is the worst part, really.

I’m still holding my scythe, so it should be dampened a bit, but still, I can hear every single wet schlop and dull scrape of the saw biting into the flesh. And when the bone crunches? I outright recoil.

Me—A Grim Reaper.

Yeah, I recoil .

“Don’t tell me you’re this squeamish,” Foxface says. He cannot seem to take his eyes off me, watching me every chance he gets. So when I can’t look at the body anymore, my gaze locks onto his instead. “Haven’t you seen plenty of this stuff by now?”

“No,” I answer honestly.”If I catch an active crime, I just take the soul and leave. No reason for me to stick around after, is there?”

“Hm,” he hums. “I suppose not. Though if I were you, I’d stay—just out of curiosity. Making sure a body disappears properly is no easy task, you know. Not everyone does it well.”

“Mm,” I murmur, just trying to drown out the next sickening crunch as Cassian moves on to another limb. “Believe me, I have better things to do.”

Another truth. Though I doubt either he or Cassian would ever understand what those things are or why I do them. And even though my tone makes it pretty clear I don’t want to elaborate, Foxface doesn’t let it go.

“Oh? Better things to do?” He leans against the bloodstained table, completely unfazed that Cassian is literally sawing through human remains right next to him. “Now that’s interesting. What does a Grim Reaper like you do for fun, then?”

I should just ignore him. I should turn around and focus on the bloody wall or something. I might be a bound Grim Reaper, but I’m still something untouchable anyway. I shouldn’t engage with humans.

But I do. I blame it on needing to drown out the sounds coming from the table and just answer him.

“I watch other things,” I say flatly.

Foxface raises a brow. “What kind of things?”

I roll my shoulders, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. “People. Places. The world I used to belong to.” For some reason, I swallow hard. “Things that should still be mine.”

Cassian doesn’t pause in his work. If my words mean anything to him, he doesn’t show it. He just keeps cutting, methodically and efficiently, like a machine.

And somehow, I’m the one who’s supposed to be dead inside.

Foxface, however, tilts his head like he’s watching his next best form of entertainment and narrows his eyes.

“Let me guess. You watch someone in particular.”

I don’t answer.

Which is answer enough.

He grins. “Oh, that’s rich.”

I force my expression into something neutral. “It’s nothing. Just a habit.”

But clearly, I’m not convincing. He crosses his arms on his chest and tilts his head back, like he’s seeing me in a new light, or something. Which is ridiculous, considering that up until now, he’s referred to me as “it”, not as a being with actual needs, wants, and... habits.

“Who is it?”

I hollow out my cheeks. Then, I glance at Pain, who’s somehow back to sitting on the metal pipe like it wasn’t just crying and writhing on the bloody floor. Newsflash: blood and dirt doesn’t stick to its feathers just like they don’t stick to me.

The little bastard is all squeaky clean.

It’s only when Cassian proceeds to cut off the men's head that my stubbornness finally cracks and I look at Foxface again.

“What’s it to you?” I ask.

“Not every day you capture a Grim Reaper in the form of a young, hot woman and get to interrogate it a little,” he says, not missing a beat. “Color me curious.”

And that? That might have surprised me more than realizing I got captured by... Well, I’m not even sure these men are human. But they’re definitely mortals. I can feel their souls. They’re there, even though it might seem like they don’t have them.

A young, hot woman? Is that how he sees me?

“If that’s your weird way of flattering me, don’t bother,” I deadpan. “I already agreed to help you with whatever you need.”

That makes him laugh.

“Don’t worry, I don’t give compliments where they’re not deserved.” His eyes rake up and down my incorporeal body. “But it’s quite a shame, really. All this is just wasting away.”

Huh?

“Wasting away?” I echo.

He gives me a funny look.

“Taken away from the world of the living so quickly?” he supplies. “Unjustly torn away while still in your prime?” His eyes flick over me again. “This body of yours looks just as it did when you died, I take it?”

I open my mouth. Well… yes. It does.

I haven’t changed at all since the moment I became a Grim Reaper. My hair doesn’t grow. My nails never chip. My skin never scars, never bruises, never ages. I am frozen in time, the same as I was on the day my ex-husband killed me—down to the very last breath I never got to take.

The only thing that’s different is my attire. Instead of the dress I died in, I wear all black. Fitted pants that leave no portion of my legs uncovered, a thin black turtleneck with sleeves that flow around my hands, and black leather boots that never scuff, never dirty, never wear down.

But the body beneath it?

It’s exactly the same.

I don’t let my expression betray anything as I process what Foxface just said.

Unjustly torn away.

As if he knows.

As if he understands.

Bullshit.

“I don’t think my ‘wasting away’ is any of your concern,” I say slowly. “As a Grim Reaper, there’s not much I can do except my job. Whatever’s left for me, though, that’s my problem. Only mine.”

But his grin doesn't waver. “You’re about to spend a lot of time with us, so it’s not just your problem anymore.”

“I said I’m helping you,” I snap back. “That doesn’t mean I agreed to hang around with you after I’m done. Once I do what you want, I’m going back to being what I’ve been these past five years.”

He chuckles. And, for some reason, I have to admit that the sound is a lot more pleasant than the background noise. I mean… that’s not really a fair competition. But still.

“A couple of things, pretty Little Grim,” he says, pushing away from the table and heading over to the plastic cover hiding all those useful supplies. He trails his fingers along the edge of the plastic like he doesn't really want to do whatever it is he's about to. He looks at me over his shoulder. “One, I don’t think you’re gonna get much downtime while helping us. And two, five years? Phew. That's a long time to be watching that special someone of yours.”

“It’s not a ‘special someone,’” I scoff.

I'd never call my ex-husband special. He might be different from the others—obsessed with being perfect, cold, distant, the epitome of a soulless person. He might even be a murderer. But special? That word’s way too good for him.

Pain caws from its perch, like it's agreeing with me. Actually, it is agreeing. There’s plenty I don’t see eye-to-eye with my subconscious on, like whether I should just sit on that damn willow tree and torture myself until I’m free of this job, or if I should embrace being a Grim Reaper fully and forget about the past.

But on this, we're completely in sync.

My ex-husband is a bastard. A worthless piece of shit.

Foxface whistles. “So you're the vengeful type of corpse?”

It's so ironic that I almost want to laugh. Almost. Because I can’t remember the last time I actually felt joy, and honestly, it's not something I’m interested in either.

Instead, I raise my eyebrows and square my shoulders.

“Believe what you want,” I tell him. “It doesn’t matter.”

He nods once, his expression unreadable, then disappears behind the plastic curtain. A moment later, he comes back with gas masks. He glances at Cassian’s work, seeing there’s not much left to do, then places the mask on the table, right near the remains of the dead man’s feet.

The way he looks at the cut-up corpse makes it clear he's seen a man divided like this before. His reaction doesn't betray an inch of discomfort, no flicker of hesitation. This is routine for him. For both of them.

Cassian wipes the bone saw on a rag before tossing it carelessly to the floor. He peels off his gloves and throws them aside, then pulls the gas mask over his face. Meanwhile, Foxface methodically clears the table, making sure every last trace of the body is gone. He packs up every piece.

By the time he’s finished, Cassian is already pouring industrial cleaner over the blood-soaked floor.

“Hey, man,” Foxface growls. “At least wait until I put the damn mask on.”

Cassian doesn’t even look up. Apparently he’s big on that. Being a jerk.

“Maybe you should stop screwing around with the fucking undead and do your damn job,” he bites back. “You won’t fall behind then.”

I don't get it. I don't get either of them. This room is covered in blood. I mean, covered . Actually painted. Every inch of the walls, the floor, and even parts of the ceiling are coated in red.

And it was clearly done on purpose. By them. Nobody just gets a bucket full of someone's blood and starts playing Picasso with it just to clean it in a moment.

So what the fuck?

Regardless, I stay quiet.

Foxface scoffs but doesn’t argue with his gruff companion. He grabs a gas mask, securing it over his face, and steps out of Cassian’s way as the industrial cleaner hisses against the stained floor. The chemical scent burns the air, even for me.

In moments like this, it comes in handy that I don’t need to breathe.

I focus on ignoring the stench and stay still, watching as the blood starts to dissolve.

The two of them keep working quietly until Foxface spills the detergent right next to my feet. Cassian pauses, glaring at him through his mask.

“Watch it,” he mutters. “Wouldn't want the Reaper to break free.”

Break free?

I glance down, where the detergent seeps into the concrete. With most of the blood being dissolved, the puddle I’d been standing in has thinned out. What I see beneath it stops my nonexistent breath cold.

Beneath the dissolving blood, beneath the filth and the grime, is something I never expected to see.

Symbols.

Intricate, curling, deliberate symbols. Runes, even.

They’re carved into the concrete itself, forming a detailed circle that I am standing inside.

A containment circle.

A binding.

I didn't even know things like this existed, but somehow, I get it right away.

“What is this?” I find myself asking. “Some kind of occult stuff?”

“Occult? That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” Foxface responds from behind his mask. “Makes you think of the devil or something.”

Well, my ex would definitely think of the devil if he saw this. Jessica, with her irrational fear of crows, would probably faint just by being here.

Of course… If I were still alive and was forced to see two strong men dismember another, I'd probably fall apart too.

But, then again… I’m not human anymore, so…

“Dramatic or not, I have never seen anything like this before,” I say.

“And thank fuck for that,” Cassian adds. To my surprise, I detect a hint of amusement in his muffled voice. “Otherwise, you'd know exactly what to do to break free.”

I stare at him. So, I can break free from here?

I try to move my foot. Just a little. Nothing. But wait. When the pull tugged at me and forced me into such agony that I had no choice but to bend over and fall, somehow I did move.

What if… I can move vertically?

I shift my weight—not forward, not backward, but up. And just like that, I do move.

Well, it’s barely a movement, a fraction of an inch, really—but it’s enough. Enough for me to get the hell out of here. The only thing I need to do is focus.

Foxface notices instantly. His head snaps toward me, that gas mask of his suddenly looking extra creepy. Cassian notices, too. His shoulders tense just slightly, his hands still gripping the bottle of industrial cleaner.

“You’re a quick learner,” Foxface says, clearly amused.

Cassian just scoffs. “Doesn’t matter. Nathaniel should be here any minute.”

Nathaniel. Again, that name.

And as if on cue, footsteps echo down the hall outside the basement.

“Speak of the devil,” Cassian murmurs.

The footsteps grow louder, closer, until finally—

A figure steps into the room. The moment I see him, I recognize him. It doesn't matter that he’s squinting against the acidic air or that his clothes are different from before.

It's him. The man I saw under my willow tree.

“What…?” I whisper, my brows drawing together in confusion.

He meets my gaze—just like before—and smiles. But it's not a friendly smile. It's sharp, cold, laced with secrets meant to stay buried.

“At last,” Cassian says, pausing his work. He tosses another gas mask to Nathaniel. “The Grim Reaper is starting to figure out how to break free. We need to tether it. Now.”

“Tether?” I echo, my pulse quickening. Yes, I feel a pulse now. “Tether me how? What are you talking about?”

Nathaniel catches the mask effortlessly, his long, pale fingers curling around it. Only then do I notice the backpack in his other hand—it's heavy, stuffed with something. Mud and dirt cover it, staining his fingers.

He drops it to the floor, and something inside rattles.

For some reason, I start to feel strange, like it's me that's been thrown to the ground. Like whatever's in that bag belongs to me.

It's ridiculous. Stupid, even. I'm not even a human.

But when Nathaniel—the guy with piercings and slicked-back hair—puts his mask on and opens the bag, my entire existence contracts.

Inside are… bones. Not just any bones. My bones.

Suddenly, everything starts clicking together in my head, and I swear I feel sweat starting to bead on my forehead. This man appeared at the house with a shovel in his hand. He looked me straight in the eye. And when I was dragged away by the pull, he dug up my grave.

He dug up my remains.

And now, those remains are here.

“What are you going to do?” I ask, threads of panic creeping into my voice.

“Don't worry, Little Grim,” Foxface says. “It’s just what we agreed on. You’re going to help us, that’s all.”

“Then why do you need my bones?”

Nathaniel crouches over the bag of my bones and picks one up between his fingers. It’s a piece of a rib, smooth and pale, like it’s never touched the decay of the world.

I can’t explain why, but the sight of it hurts. Not physically—I don’t feel pain like I used to—but in a way that digs deep into the essence of me.

I shouldn’t even be able to see them. No Grim Reaper should be able to see their remains. It's unnatural. It defies the very nature of death itself.

I take a step back—or I try to.

Of course, I cannot. The binding holds me in place.

Nathaniel tilts his head, turning the rib bone in his fingers like he’s admiring it. Admiring me . And soon enough, he pulls out something that looks suspiciously like a knife.

“What are you going to do with that?” I ask, even more uneasy.

That bone right there, it’s a part of my body. My property. He cannot touch it. He cannot—

Nathaniel presses the blade to the bone and starts carving something into it.

My nonexistent heart lurches.

“Your bones are the last thing tying you to this world, our curious little creature,” he says, his voice sounding just like it did under the willow tree. “And that makes them the key to tethering you.”

Nothing in my existence prepared me for this. This isn’t supposed to happen.

My scythe burns in my hands, the lantern shuddering. My whole being feels wrong.

I don't know what he's doing, but I can feel it. It starts right in my heart and spreads outward.

Pain lets out a sharp, piercing shriek. It feels it, too. Nathaniel doesn’t look up. His focus stays locked on my bone, his blade moving with a scary fucking precision. His hand doesn't shake. His eyes don't blink. He's just… carving, like whatever he's doing is some kind of art.

“Stop,” I choke out. “Don't do this.”

“It's necessary, Little Grim,” Foxface says.

“No, it's not,” I argue.

But Nathaniel doesn't stop. Far from it. He gives me a quick glance from beneath his eyelashes, sets the bone apart, placing it on the freshly cleaned floor, and picks up another one. Then another. Finally, he picks up my skull. And right in the center of it, on my third eye, he presses the tip of the blade again.

And just like that—I feel it.

Pain.

Not the distant, dull ache of memory. Not the phantom sensations of a body long lost.

Real, searing, all-consuming pain. Like I'm alive again.

I scream.

It’s a raw, wretched sound, torn from the depths of my being. My raven shrieks with me, and for yet another time today, I crumble in agony.

Nathaniel carves one last mark into my skull.

And everything inside me locks into place.

I collapse onto my hands and knees, my entire form anchored to the spot. My scythe clatters against the concrete, falling behind the rims of the binding.

And I know, before anyone even says it, that something has changed within me.

Foxface crouches down beside me, and takes his mask off. He extends his gloved hand, moving it toward me, and just before his fingers should pass right through me, he stops.

I feel a tingle.

His hand does not pass through me.

No…

His fingers hover, just an inch away from my skin—from my face.

It's not quite a touch, but it's not nothing either. It's something I've never felt before.

It's as if his fingers remain just shy of contact, like there's some warmth lingering between us.

And by the look in his mismatched eyes, it seems like he can feel it, too.

“Well, well,” he murmurs. “Would you look at that.”

Just like that, I know.

My five years of peaceful existence as a Grim Reaper are over.

I have just become something else entirely.

Something that can feel.

Something alive.