The Collective
The third floor opened around them like a held breath, wide and soft and strange in its gentleness. This wasn’t the rest of the warehouse, no peeling paint, no rusted piping groaning in the walls. It was warmth and filtered light, old wood and quiet corners. A space carved out for retreat, for rest.
Grace blinked at it, standing still in the doorway. “Damn,” she murmured. “This is… unexpected.”
She eyed the bed, low and wide and draped in thick blankets, the kind you could vanish into for days. “This looks like it could knock someone out for a week.”
Nicola smirked, just a twitch at the corner of her mouth. “Sometimes it does.”
Grace huffed, but her eyes didn’t leave the bed.
Nicola crossed to a small dresser near the wall, drawing out a folded T-shirt and a pair of pajama pants, faded, and familiar. She held them out with a nod. “Not exactly designer, but they’re clean. Stupid comfortable.”
Grace accepted them with a grateful smile that felt like it might buckle at the edges. She unfolded the shirt and snorted. “Taz? I haven’t seen this guy in decades.” Her gaze flicked up, sly. “Let me guess, born in ’83?”
Nicola arched her brow. “Good guess.” But something shifted. Grace watched her and saw the flicker behind Nicola’s eyes, something that wasn’t quite amusing anymore. A flicker of memory. Grief, maybe. Regret. Nicola’s silence stretched long enough to say something without saying anything at all. Grace didn’t press, but she noticed. And part of her, not the part that was performing for survival, but something quieter, rawer, ached a little at that glimpse of the woman underneath the armor.
“You okay?” Grace asked, soft. Not teasing this time.
Nicola blinked like she’d forgotten where she was. “I’m fine.” A pause. “Take your time. Towels are in the basket.”
Grace nodded, stepping toward the bathing area, her body aching for heat. “You gonna hover outside the curtain?”
“I’ll be here,” Nicola said, pointing toward the chair behind the screen.
Grace smirked and disappeared behind the divider. She called out, sing-song: “Try not to picture me naked.”
Nicola rolled her eyes, but the answer slipped out before she could stop it, quiet, worn, honest: “Too late.”
A pause. Water still hadn’t started. Grace’s voice came back, edged with a grin: “What was that?”
Nicola cleared her throat. “Nothing.”
Water hissed on. The sound filled the space.
And behind the screen, Grace stepped into steam.
—
The water was almost too hot, and it was glorious.
Grace tilted her face up into the spray and exhaled like she hadn’t in days. Muscles unlocked. Tension unspooled. Her fingers, stiff from the road and the blood and the fear, finally unclenched. But peace didn’t last. The gauze on her neck pulled, dampened, and began to itch.
“Fuck it,” she muttered, ripping it off. The bandage hit the trash with a wet slap. She turned back into the water.
That’s when it shifted. Not the water. Her. The heat, once comforting, now clung too tightly. Steam curled into her lungs like smoke. Her breath caught, then faltered. Her heart stuttered, then thundered. Her hand shot out, bracing against the tile. Her pulse was everywhere, behind her eyes, in her wrists, pounding through her ribs like it was trying to get out. She gritted her teeth. “No, no, not now,” she whispered. “Come on.”
Cold water. That’d fix it. Had to. She fumbled with the handle, finally dragging the temperature down. The cold hit hard, like a slap, but it worked, barely. She pressed her forehead to the tile. Her breath slowed. Her hands still shook. It wasn’t just shock. It wasn’t blood loss. Something was… off. Wrong in a way that didn’t have a medical name.
She felt clean—but not cleansed. Like something had been emptied from her without permission and something else had been left behind.
—
Nicola sat behind the screen, shoulder throbbing, gun now resting heavy in her lap. The leather harness was frayed, one strap hanging by threads. She turned it over in her hands, absently tracing the tear. She should’ve changed out of her shirt already, but something in her said not to, not with Grace so close.
The sound of the shower shifted. A hesitation. Then water again. Then silence. Nicola held still, listening. Still breathing. Still moving. Still alive. She exhaled. But her thoughts wouldn’t stay quiet.
That bite, whatever the hell that was, still haunted the edges of her mind. The man who’d attacked them hadn’t moved like anything she’d been trained for and Grace had recovered too quickly. Or maybe Nicola was just rattled. Adrenaline wearing off, logic slipping.
She shook her head and stood. Crossed to the glass doors and drew the curtains shut, double-checking the locks even as she told herself it was overkill. Paranoia. Caution. Same damn thing these days.
When she turned, Grace was stepping out. Barefoot. Pink-cheeked. Wearing Nicola’s pajamas. Nicola froze for just a second too long. The shirt hung off Grace’s frame, soft and loose, sleeves past her hands. Her damp curls clung to her face. There was a flush in her skin, not just from the shower, something else. Something alive.
Grace looked… good. Too good, maybe.
“I think I’m okay,” she said, voice low and hoarse like she’d been screaming or singing or dreaming. “Actually… I feel better than okay. Weirdly.”
Then, sheepish: “Do you have snacks?”
Nicola gave a faint laugh, almost a breath. “I might. Don’t get your hopes up.” She moved toward the door and froze. Grace’s hand rose absently to her collar, adjusting it. And there it was. The bite. Clean. Deep. Four marks in neat twin pairs, upper and lower. Not torn. Not bruised. Just… placed. Too perfect. Too precise. Nicola’s blood ran cold.
But Grace didn’t notice. She was laughing again, soft and warm, something real flickering behind her eyes. “These are so comfortable it’s unfair,” she said, fingers tugging playfully at the drawstring. “I feel like I should be crashing on someone’s couch after stealing their beer.”
Nicola couldn’t speak. Couldn’t trust herself to. Because suddenly, every nerve in her body was whispering the same thing: She’s dangerous. And worse: She’s beautiful. She turned away. “I’ll get you something,” she muttered, already moving.
—
Grace followed, too close.
Nicola could feel her behind her, heat and sound and scent. Footsteps soft. Breath quieter than it should be.
Then— A heartbeat. Not hers. Nicola’s. Grace could hear it. Could follow it like a song through the dark. And underneath it… the smell. Leather. Sweat. Soap. And something else. Blood. Not fresh. Not gory. But present. Copper and rain.
Her mouth watered. Her tongue grazed her teeth like she was checking for something. She wasn’t hungry for food anymore. Not exactly.
Nicola paused at the bottom of the stairs.
“You should probably change,” Grace said, voice smooth now, like silk pulled taut. “Whatever you’re wearing… it stinks of blood. It needs to go in the evidence bag too.”
Nicola looked down, blinked. Right. Her shirt. Still streaked with blood and dirt. From the fight. From Grace. From both of them. She met Grace’s eyes again. Saw the dilation. The flush. Her own pulse spiked. She looked away. “I’ll change,” she said softly. “Make yourself at home.”
She walked back up the stairs, body tight with control.
Grace watched her go. Then, slowly, she turned and walked into the kitchen. She wasn’t hungry for snacks anymore. But she’d eat anyway. Just to be polite.
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