The Prison Project (by Bethany Donaghy) novel Chapter 101

*Margot’s POV*

I watched him lean in, his mouth moving low and close to the taller guard’s ear.

I couldn’t hear the words, but I didn’t need to, because whatever he said made the man’s jaw twitch, his shoulders stiffen, and then his whole expression crack for just a heartbeat.

Fear.

Pure fear washed over the guards face before he forced it back behind his mask of authority.

It was unsettling to witness… and yet not surprising.

Coban had that effect.

The shorter one quickly shoved in between them, thick arm out like he could block a hurricane, barking some weak dismissal before yanking his buddy back.

I half-expected Coban to follow them still, to lunge, to grab hold of either of them and make good on whatever dark threat he’d whispered

But he didn’t.

He stood there, tall and steady, letting them say their last words before the pair retreated across the room until they were swallowed back into the crowd

Relief trickled through me… though it carried a biter aftertaste.If Coban wasn’t already in a bad mood, then he sure as hell would be now…

But was that it?

That was all our so-called ‘protection’ has to offer in this place?

Guards who only stirred when they wanted to flex their power, and shrank away the second a real challenge faced them?

Sure, Coban hadn’t meant to almost kill me this morning. At least, I kept repeating that to myself. But what about the other girls in this place?

The ones paired with men who didn’t stop when they should? Who would hurt them intentionally?

Would the guards do absolutely nothing to help them whenever they spot fresh bruises?

Would the girls just have to suffer in silence until the next Saturday rolled around?

The thought made me shiver in my seat, toast still crumbled in my hand like some forgotten prop.

Releasing a shaky breath, I reminded myself that I was the one who had chosen this.

I was the one who’d asked to stay another week.

I thought I could manage it, thought I could survive it til the end.

But today, I wasn’t entirely sure if I’d last the week.

I had no choice but to fight my way to Saturday…

“Coban…” I spoke carefully, my voice thin, still testing the fragile air between us.

He didn’t move at first. Still stood there, shoulders squared, eyes locked on where the guards had disappeared as though daring them to circle back

Only when my voice cut through again did he blink, turning toward me.

“Eat,” he snapped, the single word so sharp it practically cut.

His tone was always rougher than it needed to be, like he didn’t know how else to speak to me.

My throat bobbed painfully as I tried to swallow, knowing he was right but resenting it all the same.

Eating hurt.

Every bite scraped over the bruises he’d left behind.

Each sip of water burned like it had to pass through his handprint before it reached my stomach.

But I nodded, obedient, and forced another small bite past my lips.

He watched me the whole time. Not his food. Not the guards anymore.

Just me.

His stare was a weight, pressing me into my seat, making the act of chewing feel like some test I didn’t know how to pass.

I wanted to look away, to find something else in the room to focus on, but when I did, my gaze only landed on other tables. Other inmates.

Other girls.

Eyes that darted toward us and then away like they’d been caught doing something dangerous.

The room seemed to expand without him.

His presence always filled whatever space we were in, and without it, I felt suddenly exposed. Like a rabbit sitting in the middle of an open field, aware of every hawk and fox circling overhead.

I kept my eyes down, but my ears were on fire. I could hear the low hum of conversation around me.

I knew people were looking. At me. At him. At us.

I hated feeling watched…

I hated that everyone in here probably saw the bruises on my throat and thought that Coban Santorelli had claimed me, marked me, reduced me to whatever the hell they thought I was to him…

When he finally returned, he set the cup down in front of me with a thud, his eyes briefly narrowing at my untouched tray.

“Drink,” his next order came.

He didn’t need to tell me twice…

The cool water slid down my throat, soothing the burn.

His jaw flexed, but he didn’t comment, just leaned back in his chair, watching me.

“Better?” he asked suddenly.

The question startled me – not so much because of what he asked, but because he asked at all.

I nodded, unsure if that was what he wanted, but his gaze held me there until I added, “Yes, thanks.”

He tapped a finger against the table, slow and steady…

“You need to eat more.” He spoke firmly.

“I can’t,” I immediately whispered before I could stop myself. “Not right now. Please.”

The ‘please’ slipped out uninvited, and for a second, I wanted to drag it back into my mouth, but he only puffed out a sigh…

“Fine. Let’s go.”