Page 9 of Forgotten (The Soulbound #1)

Well, damn. I have to hand it to these guys—this place is optimized for handling dead bodies with a disturbing efficiency.

Every surface is designed to be wiped down. Every tool has a purpose. There’s not a speck of dust, not a single thing out of place. The morgue is more like a lab for the dead rather than an actual resting place. And, well… it makes sense.

I might be the undead here, but these guys? They’re the real monsters.

Tucked in the far corner of the room, like it’s just another appliance, sits a cremation furnace. An industrial-grade, high-temperature, “oops, where did the evidence go” kind of oven. Yup, these guys own it.

I step closer, drawn despite myself. The metal door is shut, but there are smudges all over it—like it’s been used. Recently. Frequently. Possibly in the past couple of days.

Nathaniel watches me from the corner of his eye, like he's waiting to see if I’m about to freak out.

The good thing for both of us? Dead girls don’t freak out.

Cassian is across the room, carefully arranging something on a metal tray. Talon stands with his arms crossed, observing it all with the calm of a man who has clearly seen worse.

I get it. This is nothing yet.

“So, this is the ‘preparation’ you mentioned earlier?” I ask. “You’re going to cremate the dead man?”

Nathaniel nods once. “Most of him.”

I do not like how he says that. But what can I do?

I glance back at the garbage bags.

“And the rest?” I ask.

Nathaniel tilts his head slightly. “There are many parts of the human body that are useful postmortem.”

I stare. “What.”

“Organs. Bone. Blood,” Cassian supplies, his tone as dry as ever. “Some things burn clean. Others… are put to better use.”

I stare at him.

“Better use,” I echo flatly. “You’re telling me you harvest the bodies?”

Nathaniel gives me a nonchalant shrug. “Sometimes.”

“Are you serious?” I scoff.

Talon, still leaning against the far wall, grins. “You say that like it’s a bad thing, Little Grim. Don’t tell me you think we are bad people now.”

Another joke. Another rise of anger bubbling in my veins. The morals of these men are all over the place.

I furrow my brows, watching as Cassian opens the first bag—this one full of limbs. Right on cue, Talon pushes off the wall and heads over to the furnace, gripping the heavy metal handle. I can see the muscles beneath his dark clothes flex as he yanks the door open, revealing the charred, blackened interior. The heat has long faded, but the smell—charred, acrid, unmistakable—still lingers.

He grabs the first limb—a severed arm, stiff and pale in rigor—and tosses it inside. The dull thud of flesh against metal twists something inside me.

I swallow hard. I’ve seen death before. I’ve touched it, walked with it, even become it. So why am I... disgusted ?

“That's… something,” I mutter, watching him throw the foot in and repeat the process until only the parts Nathaniel wanted to keep are left in the trash bags.

“That's efficiency,” he replies with a grunt. “Turn it on, Tal.”

Talon nods once and shuts the furnace door. Then he glances at me, sends me a wink, and aims for the exit. Before I can even process what he's doing, he's already out of the room. Out of curiosity, I follow him. With a quick thought, I sift through the old hospital walls and catch up to him in a back hallway.

I watch as he pulls open a metal door, revealing a short flight of concrete stairs leading down into the basement. He glances over his shoulder at me.

“What is it, Little Grim?” he teases. “Are you that curious to know all our secrets?”

I lift my eyebrows but decide it's my cue to let him go alone. His footsteps echo down the stairs. A moment later, a deep, mechanical groan rumbles through the building.

He comes back up, smirking.

“The generator,” he tells me smugly.

It coughs once—twice—before roaring to life. The low vibration shakes dust loose from the ceiling. The overhead lights flicker, struggling against the surge, before buzzing to life in a sickly yellow glow. The hum of electricity pulses through the morgue, and with it, the furnace seems to wake up.

We come back there, and Talon presses the red ignition button.

A heavy clunk echoes through the chamber as the furnace kicks on, followed by the sharp hiss of the gas line engaging. A second later, a deep, pulsing flame ignites within, swallowing the darkness inside the metal chamber.

The heat... it's something.

“Like you said,” I murmur sarcastically. “A real cozy place.”

“It's an old hospital facility,” Nathaniel says, unpacking yet another piece of the body. This time, I don’t even wonder what he’s going to do with it. I just look away. Apparently, even the dead have limits to how much grime they can stand. “It's been abandoned for decades. Used to be a research hospital—one of those state-of-the-art facilities that specialized in high-risk surgeries and experimental treatments. It was built way out here for privacy, mostly. No prying eyes, no city regulations breathing down their necks. Just doctors, patients, and whatever questionable practices they could get away with.”

Holy shit.

I glance around at the sterile surfaces and the gleaming steel.

Something tells me that this room has seen more body parts than a butcher’s shop on discount day.

“And what happened? Why shut it down?”

Nathaniel shrugs, casually folding a piece of cloth over the remains he’s keeping.

“Funding disappeared,” he says. “Or maybe someone found out about something they weren’t supposed to. Either way, it was condemned and left to rot.”

“Until you guys came along,” I mutter.

He doesn’t deny it.

“We make use of what’s already here,” Talon chimes in. “No one comes looking. No one asks questions. That’s the kind of place this is—forgotten. Just the way we like it.”

Hm. I don't argue. It’s morbid. Disgusting, even. But I can’t say it’s not perfect for their… unique brand of extracurricular activities.

“So what? You live here?” I ask. “In a corpse-ridden tomb?”

“Don't be so dramatic, Little Grim.” Talon chuckles. “It's not corpse-ridden. Whatever was left after the experiments, we burned. But yeah, we live here now. And it seems like you're going to live here with us.”

What a ridiculous idea. I want to scoff, laugh in his face, but… I don’t. Instead, I just stand there, watching the furnace devour what’s left of a man who, just hours ago, was fully functional.

Except for the… breathing, not-moving… thing .

“Someone's bound to find you here,” I say instead. “That generator back there makes a lot of noise. The furnace produces fumes.”

Nathaniel looks up from his work, a smirk twitching at the corner of his lips.

“The generator's housed underground,” he replies. “The noise is muffled. And the exhaust? Vents out through an old system the hospital left behind—leads straight to a collapsed section of the woods. No one’s going to see or smell a thing.”

A cold weight settles in my chest.

Oh. So they’ve really thought this through.

That’s… interesting. And also terrifying.

“And what if someone does smell or see something? What if they come here?” I press, chewing my lip. My gut churns, and Pain, who’s right at my side, sends me a little shiver of I told you so .

Nathaniel’s smirk vanishes. He straightens up, his posture sharpening like he’s about to swat the question out of the air. But there’s no threat in his face, no cold-blooded promise of violence. Just something eerily patient.

“If you’re asking whether we’d kill someone just for discovering what we do here, then rest assured.” His voice is slow and measured.” We don't kill for stupid reasons like that.”

I flick a glance at Cassian, expecting some kind of reaction. None. Talon, on the other hand, leans in with a grin that’s just wide enough to show teeth.

“So you kill only…” I trail off, trying to find the right words. Nathaniel beats me to it.

“Murderers,” he says, lips pressing into a thin, self-righteous line. “ Only murderers.”

That shouldn’t be comforting, but in a twisted way, it is. He says it with such certainty, like it’s carved into stone tablets somewhere. Like the universe itself handed them a divine permission slip to dish out homicide.

Only murderers.

Cassian lifts his head and stares at me. I exhale slowly and nod.

“And who decides who's a murderer?”

Nathaniel doesn't even blink. “We do.”

Ah. Of course. No courts, no trials, no lawyers in cheap suits fumbling with paperwork. Just their judgment, their word. A system run by ghosts and killers.

I suppress a shudder and turn toward the furnace. The man inside it? He’s killed before.

“What did he do?” I take a step back, pressing against the cold tile. I don’t know why I’m asking. I already know I won’t like the answer.

Cassian, of all people, is the one who answers. “Earlier, you asked why we painted the whole room with his blood.” He tilts his chin up. “That was his thing. A serial killer. He drained young women, then made them watch as he painted the walls with their blood. It was his ritual. We simply… recreated it.”

My stomach clenches.

He… what ?

There's a scowl on Cassian’s face. Probably I have the same. But he, with his hands meticulously arranging instruments of death and destruction, suddenly reminds me of some dark god. A vengeful one.

“That's… vile,” I manage to say.

Talon scoffs, folding his arms over his chest.

“That's one way to put it,” he says. “Tell me, Little Grim, in all the time you've been on the job, have you ever thought that maybe some people deserve to die more than others?”

I hesitate.

Because the answer comes too quickly.

Yes .

I’ve seen the worst of humanity. I’ve reaped the souls of killers, abusers, the kind of people who don’t just take lives—they grind them into dust, chew them up, and spit them back out in the shape of trauma. Some people deserve to die. I know that.

But it’s different when you’re standing in a room with three unhinged murder connoisseurs who have made it their life's mission to personally curate the who gets to keep breathing list.

For the past five years, I told myself that punishment is meant to be extracted by a higher power. That's why I'm still stuck on this plane, lingering. That's why my rat bastard ex-husband is alive, living in the house that was supposed to be mine—with a new wife—who, by the way, has redecorated the entire place with a taste level that makes me want to haunt her ass personally. Then again… I never had the power to punish him myself.

When he committed his worst crime against me, I died. I couldn't retaliate. All that was left was to wait for his time to come, knowing that someday I’d be the one to reap his soul.

Talon points a finger at me like I’m an open book.

“I see that look in your eyes,” he says. “You know there’s no justice out there. You know some people shouldn’t still be walking the earth, ruining the lives of others.”

“That's not true,” I try to argue. It comes out bleak. Very unconvincing.”There's a reason for people’s cruelty. And bad deeds don't go unpunished.”

Nathaniel scoffs.

“Please.” He steps forward, his gaze dark and unreadable. “Tell me, then. Where’s the punishment? Where’s the justice for the people this bastard butchered? The ones who begged for their lives while he turned their suffering into his own twisted masterpiece?”

I open my mouth. Close it again. That’s a really good question. One I have no answers for.

“You can’t see it. You won’t see it,” I argue anyway.

But my belly is already staging a full rebellion at the mere thought of what his victims must have gone through. If they became Grim Reapers like me… their pain stayed with them. The feeling of life leaving your body in a way it absolutely should not—it’s something a soul doesn’t forget.

Still—

“Don't preach to me about this whole revenge thing you Grim Reapers linger for,” Nathaniel spits. Gone is his usual calm, that eerie composure. Now he just looks furious. His eyebrows are two sharp, angry slashes, his fists clenched like he’s imagining punching the moral high ground straight out of me.

“You’re waiting for your own revenge, aren’t you?” he demands. “You think karma’s going to balance the scales for you one day. That’s why you haven’t moved on.”

The words slam into me like a physical blow.

I open my mouth—to argue, to deny, to say something—but nothing comes out. Because he’s right.

Nathaniel lets out a dark chuckle. “Thought so.”

“We don’t wait for justice to find the right people,” Cassian says. “We make sure it does. We give these bastards the kind of ending they deserve.”

They’re playing crusaders. An eye for an eye—except instead of taking just one eye, they’d probably take both, along with a few limbs for good measure. Extraction of justice through excessive violence.

And the worst part? I don’t feel bad about it.

I should. I know I should.

But instead, there’s something curling inside me, something quiet and dangerous, something that I probably shouldn’t be entertaining at all.

Because they don’t pretend to be better than they are. They don’t hide behind excuses. They don’t put on a fake, civilized mask like my ex-husband, who walks free, untouched, redecorating my damn house like he didn’t put me six feet under.

And that’s when the real dangerous thought creeps in.

Would they avenge me too?

If they had seen my body, still warm, my heart barely in my chest—would they have imagined my pain and made it right?

Or would they have forgotten me, just like the world did?

My silence must be answer enough, because Talon grins. And it’s not mocking this time. Not entirely. It’s knowing—like he’s watching the last fragile piece of my moral resistance crumble into dust.

“We don’t expect you to agree,” he says. “We don’t even need you to. But you see it, don’t you? You feel it.”

I do.

Even though I really, really don’t want to.

The furnace roars behind me, its heat licking at my back. I turn just in time to watch the flames devour the last of the killer’s remains, the thick, nauseating scent of burning flesh curling in the air.

Somewhere, deep in the void where the dead drift, his soul lingers. Waiting. Probably pissed.

I don’t look for it. I don’t reach out.

I don’t care.

Because I know what kind of man he was. I know what he did. And for the first time in a long time, I wonder—

If I had been given a choice, would I have killed him too?

The abandoned hospital has more to offer than just the charming ambiance of the morgue with its built-in body toaster and the basement generator that sounds one flicker away from summoning a demon. As I wander its silent, sterile halls, I realize just how much of its original function still clings to the bones of this place. A lot.

Past the morgue, beyond the rusted doors and the bodies burned to ash, there are entire wings left untouched. Operating rooms with overhead lights still dangling, their bulbs shattered but the metal fixtures gleaming under the dim fluorescents. Long hallways lined with examination rooms. Gurneys left abandoned in corners. IV stands still dangling dried-up tubes.

And then there’s the research ward.

The guys don't even try to hide it. They let me walk freely into the rooms where stainless steel tables sit empty, where surgical trays still hold the echoes of past experiments. Some of the rooms are lined with thick glass, observation windows where men in white coats once stood and watched whatever horrors unfolded inside.

After soaking it all in, I eventually wander back to the main part of the building, where Talon is more than happy to show me where he actually lives.

Apparently, their rooms are “somewhat separate” for “safety reasons.” A precaution in case one of them gets caught and takes the fall for all their crimes—leaving the rest with ample time to yeet themselves into the night.

Brotherhood at its finest.

Applaudable. Somewhat.

Now, Talon leads me through a series of winding hallways and stops at a heavy metal door, similar to the ones in the morgue but reinforced, with a simple keypad lock instead of a handle. He punches in the code and the lock disengages with a quiet click.

“You don't need to sleep, do you?” he asks me as I step inside.

I cock a brow at him, but scan his room anyway.

“Just asking,” he adds casually. “See, I'd offer you a place to crash here with me, but it's quite a shame. Not gonna lie.”

This again.

“What a tragedy,” I deadpan.

His room is… suspiciously normal. Given everything else I’ve seen so far, I half-expected blood-smeared walls and a pentagram drawn next to a rug.

Instead, I get concrete walls—bare, but not in a creepy unfinished basement way. A few framed prints lean against them, like he once thought about decorating but gave up halfway through. There’s a rug on the floor—dark, worn, but clean. A massive bed shoved into the corner.

A wooden bookshelf stands near the bed, and to my actual shock, it’s full of books. Some are old and leather-bound, the kind that probably contain forbidden knowledge, while others are newer, stacked haphazardly, like he genuinely reads them instead of just collecting them.

There’s even a low, beat-up couch across from a small TV, hooked up to an ancient DVD player—and next to it? A stack of movies. Actual, normal movies. And just beside the bookshelf, leaning casually against the wall like it belongs there, is a guitar.

That’s the part that makes my brain short-circuit.

“What, no bloodstained altars?” I tease him. “No jars of human teeth?”

Talon grins. “Those are in Cassian's room.”

I don’t doubt that.

Talon flops onto the bed, propping himself up on one elbow. “So? Impressed?”

“Not really.”

“Liar. You expected a dungeon. Admit it.”

I don’t reply—just let my gaze wander. There wasn't much to work with here, considering this used to be part of a hospital, but somehow, he made it work.

“Did you strip the tiles from the walls yourself?” I ask him, hovering near the guitar. If I could, I’d pluck a string or two. But I can’t. I can only wish I had that kind of impact in the real world—to actually touch things. To make a difference.

“Yeah,” he says. “Couldn’t stand the hospital bullshit in my own space.”

“Hm.”

To be completely honest? I don’t like this.

I don’t like how normal he seems right now. How normal this place feels.

Because it’s not. It’s a facade—a carefully curated illusion of humanity.

I don’t buy it.

Because the Talon I met in the basement of that abandoned warehouse was not the same man lounging here now. That Talon was comfortable in the violence. He was evil, deliberate, cold. But here?

Here, he’s playing the likable one. The easygoing one. The one who jokes to diffuse tension, who winks and grins and keeps things light.

“Why show me all this?” I ask, narrowing my eyes.

“Because,” he says easily, “you're going to be here for a while, Little Grim. Might as well get comfortable.”

I exhale sharply. “I don't have a choice, do I?”

His smirk widens.

“Not even a little,” he replies smoothly.”But if you want to pretend otherwise, I'd be your performance partner. Never could deny a beautiful woman anyway.”

I narrow my eyes at him. Again.

“You do realize I can just phase through walls and leave whenever I want, right?”

He hums, as if considering it. “You could,” he agrees. “But you haven't yet.”

I bristle. “That's because I have questions.”

“And once you get your answers?” he muses, tilting his head. “Then what? You go back to your little afterlife routine? Pretend none of this ever happened?”

I open my mouth to argue, but the way he watches me—sharp gaze, lazy posture—for some reason, makes me hesitate.

I don't know what I'll do.

Watching my ex-husband after meeting these three killers today wasn't as fun as it usually was. The thrill of glaring at his stupid, still-breathing face just… wasn’t hitting like it used to. And aimlessly waiting for the pull to summon me back while I lurk in the mortal realm doesn’t sound all that appealing either. The afterlife? Yeah, that place is boring as hell.

So what is left for me?

“You don't have to believe in what we do,” Talon says, shifting onto his side, watching me like he’s peeling me apart layer by layer. “You don't even have to like us. But you're here now. And something tells me you're not as eager to leave as you pretend to be.”

I glare at him. “You don’t know me.”

His smirk widens. “I don't have to know you. I know people . And I know what it looks like when someone is curious.”

The worst part? He’s right.

“Fine,” I mutter, crossing my arms. “Say I am staying for a while. What then? What exactly do you expect me to do? You still haven't even told me what you want from me.”

His grin stays, but there’s a pause—a small, fleeting moment where he just looks at me. Then, he lifts his eyebrows, glances to the side, and very deliberately drags his gaze back to mine.

“How about a compromise?” he drawls. “I’ll tell you what we want you to do so you don’t have to worry your pretty little head about it anymore, and in exchange, you tell me all about the person you’re so obsessed with that you spent your afterlife stalking them like a particularly judgmental ghost.”

Ugh. This bastard.

I know I don't have any secrets. The dead don’t have the luxury of keeping them. But I also don’t feel like sharing my personal history with a man who just spent the last hour casually incinerating body parts.

“That's hardly fair,” I argue.

“I agree,” he replies. “Too bad for you. Clearly, I'm not a very fair man. Not in terms of general justice, at least.”

He stretches, one arm lazily draping behind his back.

“You realize you'll have to tell me what you want from me in order for me to—oh, I don’t know—actually do that thing, right? I’m going to figure it out sooner or later anyway.”

“And yet you're still asking,” he counters, unbothered. “So, what's it gonna be, Little Grim? We can play this little game, or you can test your patience the hard way.”

I don’t want to play along.

But I do want answers.

I take a slow breath and exhale, rolling my shoulders back.

“Fine,” I say. “Tell me what you want from me.”

His grin spreads.

“Now we're talking.”

I half expect him to drag this out, to circle around the truth just to keep me on edge, but to my surprise, he doesn't.

“You're not just any Grim Reaper, Skye,” he says. “You're special.”

I snort. “Yeah? In what way? Because so far, the only thing special about me is that I have the misfortune of being stuck with you.”

“You're different,” he continues, ignoring my sarcasm. “Unlike any other Grim Reaper we have seen, you can be tethered down. And that’s not normal for your kind.”

I frown, crossing my arms. “What are you talking about?”

Nathaniel said something similar earlier—that I wasn’t like a ghost, that I wasn’t exactly a spirit. But I’d never questioned my nature before. I’ve been dead for years. This existence is all I’ve known since my murder.

But… now that Talon says it… I realize I am different from other Reapers. I never could just wait in the nothingness for souls to appear. I could never fully separate my job from my old life.

I always thought it was just… a personality flaw. A me problem.

Talon must see something shift in my expression because he nods, like he was waiting for me to piece it together.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “We've seen the others. They were all much more… soulless than you.”

I glare at him.

“So what is it about? Why am I so different?”

His smile shifts. It’s not one of those cocky, teasing smirks that would make any other woman’s knees weak. No, this one is different. Softer. Sadder.

And that’s why I suddenly dread his answer.

“You’re different, Skye,” he says, watching me carefully. “Because you never had a funeral.”

I go still.

The words hit like static, like someone speaking a foreign language but insisting I should understand. A funeral? What does that have to do with anything?

I shake my head. “What are you talking about?”

“You never had a funeral,” he repeats, softer this time. “No one buried you. No one mourned you. No one gave you a proper send-off. You were never truly put to rest.”

“There are many people who die without—”

“Not like this, they don't,” he interrupts me, dead serious. “We've looked into you, you know? No family except your husband. Living in your grandmother's house who died ten years before you did. No aunts, cousins, no parents looking for closure. Just one man—your husband. And he never mourned you, Skye. He didn’t even try.”

My throat feels tight, even though I don’t need to breathe. A horrible, creeping sensation washes over me, cold and relentless, wrapping around my limbs like a vice.

“He reported you missing,” Talon continues. “But that's all he did. No search. No tearful statements to the press. No dramatic breakdown at your presumed gravesite. He just... waited. And when time passed, when the world moved on? It moved on without you. Not a single candle was lit in your honor. And that? That tethered you here.”

I look down at my hands and realize they’re shaking.

This is ridiculous. This is stupid. I know what happened to me. I know how I died. I know who killed me. What does it matter if no one buried me? If no one held a funeral?

But it does matter.

Because Talon’s right.

I was erased. Completely. No body, no grave, no closure. Just a name that faded from the world like I had never existed. No wonder I’m stuck. No wonder I’ve been clinging to a life that’s already gone.

I was never allowed to die properly.

“The man we killed today?” Talon asks. “He had a family. Two daughters. And sure, he’s gonna be nothing but ash and bad memories by the time we’re done here, but someone will remember him. His daughters, his victims’ families, the people who will follow his case once it comes to light. His name will live on in horror. He will not disappear completely.”

Talon leans forward, elbows resting on his knees.

“But you? You were already gone before you died, weren’t you?”

It lands like a punch to the gut.

And suddenly, the pity in his voice is the most unbearable thing I’ve heard in the last five years.

It's also what gives birth to a horrible, horrible thought in my head.

One that I shouldn’t have.

One that is entirely too sweet.

One I want him and the others to help me with.