Page 7 of Forgotten (The Soulbound #1)

Nathaniel joins the others in cleaning the basement room. The only sounds are the scrape of rags against stone, the rustle of garbage bags, and the occasional drip of something I don’t want to think too hard about. No one speaks to me. Not while they scrub the blood away, not while Nathaniel picks up a UV flashlight and scans the walls for anything they might have missed.

Not even when I start trying to flicker out.

I’ve been at it the whole time—concentrating, pushing, trying to drop down into the earth like I’ve done a thousand times before. But the flickering just… won’t come.

It’s funny. Flickering has always been a funny business. Technically, it's something I’ve mastered over the years—enough that I don’t do it by accident anymore. But getting it to work on command, the way it did when I dropped through the concrete above, requires focus. And usually, focus isn’t a problem. There’s not much that can rattle me.

But now? I'm struggling .

Maybe before, when Nathaniel wasn’t here, I could’ve just closed my eyes, put my fingers together, and dropped into the earth without thinking twice. Back then, I didn’t even know I had the ability. But now? Now, with those symbols written on my bones, something’s changed deep inside me.

That alone is enough to keep my mind too tangled to focus properly.

In other words, I'm stuck here.

Nathaniel stands up, wiping his hands on a rag before finally looking at me. I've been watching him work alongside the others. Actually, I've been watching all of them. But he's the most meticulous one. When he was wiping away the blood, the movement of his hand was slow and smooth, never wavering or hesitating for a second.

That’s not all.

Unlike Foxface, who's been sneaking glances at me every five minutes, or even Cassian who can’t seem to stop himself from looking my way every now and then, Nathaniel hasn’t spared me a single glance.

He’s entirely focused on his work.

Like a leader .

Cassian and Foxface seem to listen to him. Sometimes it’s subtle, like when they follow his movements without thinking, instinctively falling in line. Other times, it’s more obvious. They glance at him before making a decision, waiting for his approval without him needing to say a word.

And now, this leader of the two murderers, the man who dug my grave and looks like a goth piercings addict—Nathaniel—is staring at me.

His two blue eyes pierce right through me, just like they did below the willow tree. Bright side? Unlike the eyes of his companions, his are not mismatched.

Makes him feel a little more like a human than a monster.

“I'm going to wipe the binding circle now,” he says, without any emotion in his voice. “You'll be free to move around once I do.”

“I can go anywhere I want?” I ask. The idea of freedom is tempting, but I can't shake the feeling that this might be some kind of test—or worse, another trap I’d be walking right into.

The truth is, these men are a mystery to me. I don’t know what they want or how much they know. But one thing is clear—they understand the supernatural far better than I do, and that realization feels like a noose tightening around my throat. Because if I , a Grim Reaper, am in the dark… then what does that make them ?

Some… shadow walkers? No, too dramatic. Ghost whisperers? Too wholesome. Paranormal cryptid enthusiasts with a subscription box for cursed objects?

I narrow my eyes at them.

Nathaniel does look like the type who reads ancient forbidden texts for fun and would absolutely, without hesitation, lick a haunted object just to see what happens.

“You’ll see,” he says ominously.

Not quite a yes. Not quite a no. So, there’s hope. A sliver of it. Maybe.

It also makes me way more suspicious.

Pain ruffles its feathers beside me—restless, eager to take flight. It stomps one sharp little foot, then another, like it’s impatient. Nathaniel glances up at it, and the smirk that tugs at his lips…

It does something to me.

A flutter. A shift. A feeling I can’t name curling deep in my stomach. There are dimples in both of his cheeks—a cute thing. But on him, it looks anything but cute. They look like warning signs. Like nature’s way of saying, “ this one’s dangerous, stay away” . Or maybe, “this one will ruin your life, proceed at your own risk.”

Not that a dead girl can proceed with anything.

But for some reason, something inside me stirs. Again.

“What have you done to me?” I ask, watching as he takes bleach and tosses it just inches away from me. Then, with a lazy flick of his wrist, he attaches the rag to a stick and starts scrubbing away the chalky symbols drawn on the cold stone floor.

“We told you already,” he murmurs. “We bound you.”

The moment the last stroke vanishes, something shifts inside me. A pressure I hadn’t even noticed before—like invisible threads laced through my limbs—loosens.

I don’t move immediately. Because I’m not dumb. I wait, testing, seeing if the weight will return. If this is another one of their mind games. But nothing holds me back. My body is mine again.

“You should be able to move now,” Nathaniel says, straightening up.

I nod. The flickering should be easier now. I just need to focus on how much I want to get out of here.

A breath in. A breath out. Then—

…Nothing.

I press my fingers together, focus, will myself into the void.

Still nothing.

I don’t drop into the earth. I don’t slip away into the unseen. I just stand there. Like an idiot. Legs solid. Feet planted.

So, Plan B: I take a step forward. And even though it works—I move—the feeling of wrongness stays lodged in my soul.

But who cares, really?

If I can walk, I can leave. And if I can leave? Then fuck these guys.

Nathaniel doesn’t stop me. Neither do Foxface or Cassian. Which is either really good or really, really bad.

I take another step, then another. The exit is right there. I just need to go where I first flickered in, then past it. That’s where Nathaniel came from, so clearly, that’s where the rest of the world is.

My legs feel kind of heavy, a little too solid compared to before. But they move, and that's what matters.

Foxface and Cassian have stopped whatever morally dubious activity they were doing and are now watching me like I'm the local circus. Which, rude, but not unexpected.

Pain—my only ally—flaps ahead, wings ruffling. It’s nervous; I can feel it in the way it twists in the air, darting forward like it wants to guide me out, like it wants me to run.

And honestly? It's a really good idea.

I pick up my pace.

Three more steps.

Two.

One—

I get into the dark corridor of the basement.

I don’t stop.

I don’t look back.

I reach the stairwell at the end of the corridor, taking the steps two at a time. My legs feel heavier, like I’m moving through a pool of Jell-O, but whatever supernatural bullshit they pulled on me doesn’t matter right now. What matters is getting out.

At the top of the stairs, I push through the door and emerge into a back alley. The day is still young, and the stench of rotten cabbage and smoke is still in the air. Nothing changed here.

I turn around and peer into the corridor.

They’re letting me leave.

Huh.

I glance up at Pain. “It doesn't matter why, does it?”

The raven blinks. I take it as a yes, or maybe as an “I’m a bird, why are you asking me existential questions?” Either way, I move on.

Maybe one of their spells misfired. Maybe binding a Grim Reaper turned out to be more complicated than they expected. Or maybe they just suck at it. Who knows? It might not sit right with me, but I’m not about to turn around and ask them to give it another go.

I need to take this miraculous fuck-up and get back to my routine. What would I even stick around for? A tutorial on binding spirits featuring three men who look like they get hard reading demonic fine print? No, thanks.

And since there's no pull yanking me toward my Reaper duties, I do what I always do—I go back to watching my Gran’s house and spying on my ex like a completely normal, well-adjusted dead woman.

It takes me about thirty minutes to stop in front of the white picket fence and peer through it. The sensation is a bit different than before—it tickles more. But I brush it off and climb up the willow tree.

To my surprise, my grave below looks almost exactly the same as I left it. The only difference is a rectangular cut in the grass, almost like Nathaniel made a very precise incision even into the earth when he dug me up. The lawn here is natural, with roots in the ground and no fake grass. That's what makes it even more astounding.

I don't know how he did it, but no one would be able to tell that the grave had been touched at all. I doubt that with the way my ex-husband and Jessica obsess over this tree, either of them will notice anything.

But one thing is for sure. My bones are gone from here. I can feel it.

I stifle the weird surge of anger rising inside me and sit on my usual spot. It’s getting close to lunchtime, so even though I feel all sorts of wrong deep down, watching them should help me feel better.

Usually, he and Jessica eat at home. She pulls one of those premade salads from the fridge, dumps some dressing on it, and eats while scrolling through her phone. He, on the other hand, always makes something for himself—something warm, something that actually smells like food.

Today is no different.

Through the window, I see him standing by the stove, stirring something in a pot. Jessica is at the dining table, her free hand picking at the lettuce as she laughs at something on her phone.

Pain lands on the branch beside me. It cocks its head, watching me closely.

I’m not sure what it is that I expect to feel. Normally, watching them gives me some clarity—it reminds me of who I was, what I lost, and what I still need to do. But now, something feels... off . It’s not just the lingering wrongness I feel in my limbs or the heaviness in my movements. It’s more than that.

Jessica tilts her head, glances at him, and motions for him to come see whatever she’s looking at. He turns, steps away from the stove, and leans in over her shoulder. He barely even smiles. He never does. But he always comes over to see whatever she wants to show him anyway.

I narrow my eyes.

Is he happier with her than he was with me? Doesn't look like it. He seems just as cold a bastard as he always was with me. He’s just better at hiding it now. I remember what it was like, sitting in the chair she’s in now.

I used to be the one calling him over, preparing food for both of us—the one whose presence in his life was a given. He'd always criticize it but eat it anyway. Then he'd load the dishes into the dishwasher, eager to be the one to do it, insisting he was the only one who knew how to arrange them so they were washed just right. And then, after a quick peck on my cheek, he'd go back to work.

Something sharp and bitter rises up in my throat.

Huh? What is that? I clamp my mouth shut before it can escape.

Pain pecks the wood twice, craning its little neck, looking at me like I've completely lost my mind.

“What?” I ask it, furrowing my brows. But I know exactly what it is don't I?

I was just about to... laugh. Not one of those lights, breezy laughs I hear Jessica make from time to time. No, I wanted to laugh because of how unfair all of this is.

I feel the thought slither through my mind, unbidden and ugly.

I don’t want to be here, sitting in a tree like some miserable phantom, stewing in emotions I shouldn’t even have anymore. I should be moving forward. I should be living another life. Reincarnating into something better than I was before. Something more fortunate.

But no… I chose this.

Why? Because my ex-husband—who I swore I would never waste another thought on—still follows the same dull routine, still exists in his neat little world like nothing ever happened. Like I never happened. Because I thought I'd see him suffer.

I exhale sharply, rubbing my face, only to freeze when my fingers brush my jaw. The sensation is wrong—too solid, too real. I run my hand down my arm, pressing against my skin, and my stomach twists.

It's all so different. I'm different.

I close my eyes. My breath—why do I even have breath?—comes out shakier than I want to admit.

“No, no…” I tell myself out loud. “Don't even think about this. Just do what you always do. Watch them, and… wait.”

I don't even want to wonder what I’m really waiting for. Not the lie I always tell myself, but the real reason. I don't want to go there.

Instead, I force myself to focus on the scene in front of me—how he stirs the pot without even tasting the food, how Jessica barely acknowledges him except for the occasional beckoning. The patterns. The routines. The repetition.

It should transfix me. It always does. But now, it only strengthens this weird anger coiling in my chest.

I'm a Grim Reaper. A dead thing. A shadow clinging to the edges of the world, slipping through matter, untouchable, unseen. Even when I sat here, when I watched, I was never… this.

“Pain, for god's sake,” I mutter, searching for my raven. “What the hell is going on?”

It looks just as confused as I am.

Fuck.

My mind flickers back to Nathaniel’s smirk, to the way his dimples made something inside me stir in a way that had nothing to do with fear. He knew I'd feel different once he let me go. After all, why else would he do it?

It was his plan all along.

The worst part? It seems like it's working perfectly. Because for some reason, I can’t stop thinking about him. About… them .

Not Jessica and my ex. The three men. The three ungodly killers who have painted the entire concrete basement with the blood of the man they first drained on a table.

I wonder… What are they doing now? Are they still at the murder scene? Did they already get rid of the body? Are they still cleaning up?

And what about that thing they wanted me to help them with? No one ever told me exactly what their goal was.

What did they do with my bones? Are they carrying them in that backpack Nathaniel brought?

I... what? What am I even thinking about?

I grind my teeth, feeling the strange weight of my body as I shift against the bark of the willow tree. The questions just keep coming, crowding my mind like gnats, and I don't like it.

Nathaniel’s smirk flashes in my mind again. Those dimples…

Foxface's interest in me.

Cassian's indifference.

I exhale sharply and shake my head. No. I’m not going to sit here and spiral, chewing over my thoughts like a dog worrying at a bone. I’m a Grim Reaper. My purpose is clear. I collect the dead. I guide them. That’s all.

And yet…

I glance at the house, at my ex-husband and Jessica. The living . Perhaps it's okay to be interested in the present as much as the past.

“Just not this one,” I mutter aloud. Then I turn to face Pain again. “I can't do this,” I say, my voice quieter. “I can't do this anymore. I don't know why, but… I have to go back to them.”

For the first time since I became this thing—a shadow, a ghost, a Grim Reaper—I feel like I don’t belong here.

I push off the tree and slip down to the ground. The landing sends a weird jolt through my legs, that dull pressure I haven’t felt since before I died. I ignore it and keep moving. Through the fence. Down the alley. Out into the city streets, where the world blurs around me.

When I get to the building, I don’t hesitate. I step back into the alley, past the door I left through, and into the dark hallway of the basement.

I don’t stop.

Not until I’m standing in the same damn room I ran from, staring at the three men I should have never come back to.

They don’t even look surprised.

Nathaniel, sitting on the edge of the now-cleaned table, tilts his head slightly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. Foxface leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching me with those sharp, curious eyes. And Cassian, standing near a shelf of rusted, strange tools, barely reacts.

Like they expected me to come back.

Like they knew I would.

Nathaniel’s dimples deepen as his eyes scan over me. “Like clockwork,” he murmurs.

I narrow my eyes. “What did you do to me?”

His smirk widens.

“Oh, love,” he says, voice thick with amusement. “We made you ours.”