The Prison Project (by Bethany Donaghy) novel Chapter 25

Margot’s POV

The world came back to me in pieces.

A hand. A shake. A jolt so violent my entire body rattled on the floor. My eyes scrunched shut as I let out a groan, every muscle stiff, my back screaming with newly found aches.

I didn’t feel ready to wake up yet…

“Ugh…” I mumbled, stretching out slowly, limbs heavy and unwilling. “Just five more minutes-”

Wrong.

Something was wrong.

“No! Get the fuck up,” Coban snarled, his voice splitting the fog of my dreams like a whip. “I’m not taking you to breakfast wearing that. Cells open in fifteen – don’t make me fucking drag you to the shower.”

My eyes shot open at that voice.

I blinked up, disoriented for half a breath – then when I glanced over my shoulder, my vision locked on him.

Coban.

Crouched down right next to me. His bare chest glistened, a towel slung low around his hips, dark hair dripping wet from the shower.

It took everything in me not to recoil.

The nearness. The aggression in his tone. The heat still radiating off his skin. He looked like he’d stepped out of a fire and was ready to throw me into one.

“I’m sorry – I didn’t hear you-” I scramble up on to my elbows, before turning fully to lock eyes with him.

But then he stilled.

His expression twisted. Not anger. Not amusement. Something sharper. Eyes locked on my face like they’d spotted something rotten.

“What the fuck is that on your face?” he asked, features screwing up.

My stomach dropped. My mind raced.

What…?

Then it hit me.

The damn bruise!

I’d forgotten all about it!

After last night’s shower, I’d gotten really tired, wanted to put my things away and only got half way through before grabbing my blanket and curling up on the floor.

I’d completely skipped the concealer. The bruise was on full show now, bare and blooming like an ugly secret across my skin.

“Oh. That?” I forced a nervous laugh, scrambling to play it off as though it were nothing. “I, um… I fell. Hit a table edge. Stupid really.” My words came out fast, tangled and idiotic.

I reached to stand, desperate to put some distance between us-

His hand shot out like a cracking whip, closing around my wrist firmly.

He yanked me back down, closer to him now, as I inhaled a sharp, fearful breath. It wasn’t hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to remind me that he could hurt me if he wanted to.

His grip was commanding, fast, terrifying.

“Don’t lie to me,” he growled, voice low and lethal. “That’s breaking rule number one.”

My chest tightened. My lungs forgot how to work. It was the first time he’d touched me since I’d arrived, and even though it wasn’t a hit, it felt like one. His speed, his precision – it was a warning of how dangerous he was. A demonstration.

My lips parted, dry and useless. “I–I’m not lying, I-”

He didn’t buy it. His stare pierced through me like knives.

“You want another night on this floor?” he snapped,

“No.” The word slipped out like a breath, barely audible.

“Then don’t test me, Bella!” He snapped, the pet name feeling like a punishment itself each time he used it.

I was spiraling. Every cell in my body screaming be smart, Margot, be safe.

I shut the water off and reached for the towel, wrapping it tight around my chest as I stepped out into the cold, sterile bathroom light.

Glancing in the mirror, the bruise was worse than I remembered.

A sick bloom of purple and green spreading like oil across my face.

‘Three strikes and you’re out‘.

I chewed my lip, knowing I had no choice but to be truthful…

I tugged on my clean underwear first, followed by the new pale grey sweatpants I was forced to opt for over the pink, before peeling on a white soft sports bra topped with a fitted white vest. My skin was still boiling from the shower, and so I decided to carry my matching grey sweatshirt.

My fingers trembled as I opened the makeup compact and began dabbing concealer over the bruise.

It was thin but I layered it anyway, praying it would hold.

It helped. A little. Enough to look like maybe it wasn’t what it was. Enough to fool someone who didn’t really want to look closely.

I took my hair down again, and brushed through it with quick, jerking motions until it sat somewhat presentable.

As I stepped out of the bathroom, the cell doors began to buzz and clang open, the sound echoing like gunshots through the walls.

Coban was waiting near the door dressed in a full black sweatsuit; the most clothes I had seen him in since we met. Hair still damp but styled neatly.

–

He looked me over slowly taking in the grey and white outfit and my new face, the work I’d done to cover the bruise.

“Better,” he muttered. “Put on your sweatshirt and slides and let’s go.”

I nodded, moving to retrieve the white slides, slipping my feet in to them – thankful they fit – before tugging on the jumper against my hot skin, not wanting to argue.

Here goes nothing…