Page 6 of Forgotten (The Soulbound #1)

I don't recognize the man before me. I wish I never had to.

He's massive, with a permanent scowl on his face, even now as he's grinning at me in the most unsettling way.

Even in my petrified state, I know exactly what kind of man he is. Not someone who's ever cared about another person in his life. No, this man is cruel. Irredeemably cruel. Not the kind who simply lost his way, drowning under the weight of his choices. No, this man enjoys it. He thrives on it.

The cruelty isn't a side effect. It's his purpose.

I’ve never been the type to judge a book by its cover, but god… He looks exactly like what he is. His malice isn’t just an aura—it’s him.

His neck is thick and there's a scar slashing right next to his ear. His fingers are stained black with dirt. He's bald. But none of that would matter if it weren’t for that awful, awful smile.

“Take a look at her,” Mark says. “She's harmless.”

Next to this man, he looks like a schoolboy. My husband, who’s been taking care of his body ever since I met him—working out each morning when the sun comes up—looks insignificant compared to this… thug . Because that’s the only word for him. And even though Mark is doing something he rarely does in front of other people—looking out for me—it still doesn’t have much of an effect.

He doesn’t have the charisma to make a real impression on this guy. The man tilts his head, eyes only flickering in his direction.

“Harmless?” he repeats, voice like gravel. “I'll tell you what's harmless—a bitch with her teeth pulled out. Then, she cannot bite you. But her?” He clicks his tongue. “Not only does she have teeth, but also a voice and a tongue.”

His gaze slides back to me. There's something disgusting in it. Something slimy. I don’t need to read his mind to know what he’s thinking. And I don’t like it one bit.

I force myself to breathe evenly, to swallow the rising panic that’s clawing at my throat and do something.

“How about I…” I say weakly, glancing at Mark, then back at the man. “...just go back to the room? And you two… continue your conversation?”

The bald man’s smile deepens, twisting at the edges like a thing that’s been used too many times, until it’s almost grotesque. His teeth are yellowed and uneven, but each one seems to sparkle with saliva.

He looks at Mark.

“You’ve really put me in quite a tough spot here, Dilano.” His voice is oddly gentle now, like whatever ugliness lingers beneath his skin has momentarily settled.

Mark stiffens. I try to read his face from where I’m standing, but I see what I always do. Composure. His body is the only thing giving him away.

My husband is tense.

“I don't see what I've done,” he responds calmly. “You know I'm reliable.”

The man hums, thinking it over, then laughs.

“So far,” he says. “Why do you think you're still breathing?”

Still… breathing?

What the hell is Mark involved with?

The man puts his big hands on his hips and turns his head, studying my grandmother's house. His eyes scan everything—the hallway with the bedroom, Mark's office, the bathroom. Then he looks up at the ceiling, almost like he's counting the wooden beams stripping it, before he takes a deep breath and exhales through his mouth.

“It’s always one of you types who manage to screw things up when it really counts,” he finally hums. “Look at you. A house, a steady job…health’s good?” Mark nods. “Yeah, no real problems in life. And yet you can’t control your bitch when it's life or death for you.”

“I told you—” Mark starts, but the man cuts him off.

“That she's harmless, and she's reliable,” the man finished for him. “Right.”

I keep my spine straight, my hands at my sides. I do not flinch. I'm so paralyzed that even breathing feels difficult. But I can't bring myself to look at him any longer. Instead, I drop my gaze to the floor, right at his boots, covered in mud, staining Gran's old carpet. The longer I stare at them, the more I feel like I’m sinking.

And then he moves. Not much, but enough. Instead of coming toward us, he steps back, and it's enough to make my gaze snap back to him.

“Let's go downstairs, all of us,” he says. It's not a request. It's an order.

He turns and starts walking down the stairs, pausing halfway to shoot Mark a sharp glare. Then Mark looks at me and extends his arm, signaling for me to follow.

“B-but,” I manage.

As soon as the words leave my mouth, Mark’s whole face hardens, and he grabs my arm with enough force that I can already feel bruises forming. He shoves me toward the stairs with such force that I nearly stumble, barely catching myself against the wall. The air rushes out of me, but I bite my tongue, forcing myself not to cry out.

Mark… he's never hurt me before. He’s always been cold, but he’s never laid a hand on me. But now, as I press my palm against the railing, feeling the sting of where his fingers just were, I realize something—

It doesn’t matter what he hasn’t done before. It matters what he’s doing now.

Because I don't even recognize him anymore.

He forces me to go first, keeping his pace fast enough that I have no choice but to move quickly, my heart pounding in my ears as I descend the stairs. Just moments ago, I was bringing Gran's chair upstairs, feeling like everything was finally starting to fall into place.

How did things end up like this?

The bald man is already at the bottom, waiting. He's made himself comfortable in the living room, squeezed between a white leather sofa and glass table standing on a pale blue frothy carpet. He sits down, legs spread wide, and looks around once more.

This room, unlike most of the house, was chosen by Mark. There are no antiques here, no traces of Gran’s touch—just sleek, modern furniture he's been buying lately.

I had thought he finally wanted to make this place feel like home for him, as much as it's always been for me. But...

It wasn't cheap.

I never even stopped to wonder why he was spending so much money all at once. It never crossed my mind that Mark might be doing something behind my back. Something that clearly has nothing to do with the lawful accounting he's always been so good at and everything to do with... shadiness.

The bald man gestures toward the couch opposite him. “Sit,” he tells us.

I glance at Mark, still feeling the ghost of his grip on my arm, but he doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t offer any reassurance. He doesn’t even pretend to care that my world is unraveling by the second.

Something inside me cracks.

But still, I sit.

My hands stay inelastic in my lap, fingers contorted together to stop them from trembling. The bald man leans forward, bracing his forearms on his knees, and I catch a faint scent of tobacco and something ferrous, something that evokes blood a little too vividly.

He looks like malice, but smells like death.

His eyes flick to my fingers, and he tilts his chin up.

“What’s going on, sweetheart?” he asks me suddenly. “Did I scare you that much?”

I blink at him, unsure whether I’m meant to answer or stay quiet.

Mark exhales sharply through his nose.

“Skye frightens easily.” A lie . I don't. I don’t—at least, not unless I’m face-to-face with someone who radiates the capacity to kill. “You’ll have to forgive her for this behavior.”

This behavior? This behavior? If my entire body wasn't frozen with fear, I might have laughed. What other behavior should I have in this situation?

I swallow hard as the man reclines into the couch, his leather jacket parting to reveal a holstered gun at his side.

“Lucky for you two, I'm in a very forgiving mood today,” he says. “You see, sweetheart,” he continues “your husband here is very useful to my boss. He’s got a real penchant for numbers. Allegedly. He can make money materialize out of thin air. Or make it vanish, depending on what’s needed. I don't know how he does it. I mean, look at me. Math's not exactly my forte, right?”

Another question I don't know how to answer. So instead of speaking, I just simply stay put and wait for him to continue. He does.

“But there are times—rare times—but still, when people like your husband blunder. A small mistake here, a misplaced digit there, and suddenly, someone's short a few grand. And my boss? He’s not the kind of man who likes to be short on anything.”

He spreads his joke, his lips curving, but there's no humor in his eyes.

“Everything's already been straightened out,” Mark interjects smoothly. “I returned the money.”

“Right,” the bald man replies. “You did, you did. But you see, Dilano, one trust gets broken...”

He doesn't finish, and he doesn't need to. The slow movement of his hand toward the gun at his hip says it all.

My heart vaults into my throat.

I never imagined I’d die like this. Not knowing what's happening, in this house, with some dangerous stranger toying with me like a marionette. Especially not by Mark's hand. Of all people, I never thought he would bring this kind of misfortune down on me, on us.

I've always seen him as a good, reliable man. Cold, yes, but reliable. Loving, in his own warped manner.

But whatever this is, it’s anything but that.

“You need me,” Mark says suddenly. And I wish I could say he’s finally showing something other than control. That, right now, with me shaking beside him and tears welling up in my eyes, I can see desperation in him.

Anything that would show me we're in this together. But no. My husband, Mark Dilano, shows only one thing, just as he did throughout the entirety of our relationship. Calculation.

“You need me,” he repeats, firmer this time. “If you didn’t, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

The bald man exhales through his nose, clearly entertained. He tilts his head slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching like he might smile again.

“Perhaps,” he muses. “But do I need her ?”

“ I need her. So if you need me, she stays. Alive .”

The bald man hums, his fingers drumming against the grip of his gun. His eyes flick between the two of us.

I do not breathe. I do not move.

For a moment, all I hear is the old clock ticking in the background, like it's counting down to my death.

His gaze crawls over my face, my throat, my hands—as if he's trying to figure out just how much of a problem I really am.

Then he sighs, tapping two fingers against his temple.

“See, that's what makes you an interesting little fucker, Dilano. You know what you're worth.” He gestures vaguely around the room. “You know what this is worth to you.”

His fingers stop tapping. His expression darkens.

“And because of that, I'm willing to make you a deal.”

A… deal?

Mark stays quiet. His hand flexes against his thigh, and I notice how his breath slows a little.

“What do you propose?” he asks, his eyes sharpening.

I recognize that look. My husband has transitioned from a taut businessman in a negotiation to a tactician orchestrating his next move. He always looks like this when he's cogitating, debating what to do.

And the bald man smiles. I think he might know this look, too.

“Simple,” he says, his arms draping over the back of the couch. “You do what you do best. Make money appear and disappear, make it vanish without a trace. But this time, you do it for us .”

His eyes flick to me, and his fingers swirl lazily against his thigh. It makes me sick to my stomach.

“And you,” he tells me. “You’re going to make sure whatever your husband does, it doesn’t lead back to me or my boss. It’s your life on the line here, sweetheart.”

My stomach twists.

Mark exhales through his nose, slow and measured. “You want a ghost account. Something that launders your money without a trace.”

The bald man grins, flashing yellowed teeth. “I knew you’re smart.” His smile fades, and his voice turns glacial “This is your insurance policy. Fuck up again, and next time, I won’t be sitting here having a nice little chat.”

I feel the words like ice slipping beneath my skin.

Mark doesn’t react at first.

Then, slowly, he nods.

“Fine.”

I flinch.

That’s it? No protest? No hesitation?

The man pushes himself off the couch, adjusting the leather jacket over his broad shoulders. The gun glints once again beneath it before he snaps it shut.

“You’ll get the details soon,” he says, glancing at Mark before looking at me one last time. His gaze lingers, like he's savoring my fear, like he's tucking it away for later.

“You should be grateful, sweetheart,” he tells me. “Your husband just saved your life.”

I can’t speak. My throat is too tight, my breath trapped somewhere inside me, caught between panic and disbelief.

Mark… saved me? More like he created this situation in the first place.

But the man doesn’t wait for a response. He just chuckles, shaking his head as he strides toward the front door.

“Make sure she doesn’t become a liability, Dilano. Or I will handle her myself.”

The door clicks shut behind him.

And just like that, he’s gone.

I sit frozen on the couch, staring at the empty space where he stood, the stench of tobacco and metal still hanging in the air.

I don’t move.

Mark does.

He exhales quietly, like the moment’s already passed for him, like it was just another business deal. He stands, brushing his palms against his pants, straightening his posture.

Like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t just hand himself over to a criminal.

Like he’s not the villain here.

I look up at him, finally forcing my lips to move. “Mark…” My voice is barely a whisper, but he doesn’t look at me. Not until he’s already made his way to the bar cart in the corner, pouring himself a drink.

Only then does he turn.

His eyes meet mine.

And he shows me another side of himself I never knew existed.

He throws the glass with the alcohol, making it shatter against the glass table in front of me.

It's the first one of many throws that follow.

That's when I get it. Mark Dilano was never the one to save me. If anything, he was always meant to be my doom.

One I could never escape from.