The Prison Project (by Bethany Donaghy) novel Chapter 59

Margot’s POV

The click of the cell door behind us echoed like a warning shot.

Steel locking steel. Another day down. Another night to survive.

I stood awkwardly in the center of the room, my stomach thankfully no longer growling but my cheek very much still burning beneath the surface.

Coban stood by the door, his presence always managing to suck the air from a space in mere seconds flat, arms folding up tightly across his chest, ink rippling over each and every tense muscle of his.

His eyes didn’t leave me either as I turned to face him…

“Now then,” he drawled slowly, like a verdict being passed. “Let’s discuss what happened earlier, since we’re finally alone and you’ve been fed…”

I shifted from foot to foot, already anticipating the storm that was coming. I knew it had been too good to be true, thinking that he would actually let things slide…

My fingers itched to fidget. My throat dried instantly. Still, I tried to play it cool; key word being ‘tried’.

“The incident in the cafeteria, or…?” I questioned as though I were unsure.

The words barely left my mouth when he clicked his tongue – a sharp, disapproving sound that made my heart, trip in my chest.

“No,” he said flatly. “You know exactly what incident I mean. Now remove that jumper for me.” I blinked.

Hard.

My jaw falling slack and my mouth opening in horror at what I’d just heard him say.

“W-what?” I blurted out, the word feeling ridiculous the second it left me.

Because I knew he meant it. His face didn’t twitch. His expression didn’t flinch. He just nodded slowly, tilting his head slightly as if testing whether I’d dare to disobey him.

“Remove it. Now, Bella. You didn’t hesitate to earlier, did you?” He deadpanned, as I swallowed hard.

My breath stuttered in my chest. The heat in my face prickled hotter.

I could feel the burn of his gaze already tracing beneath the fabric like ghostly fingers.

The lump in my throat swelled painfully as I reached down, trembling, hesitant at first as my hands met. the bottom hem of the sweatshirt. I half-expected him to laugh. To mock. To say just kidding and berate me for being so easy to command.

But he didn’t.

He just watched me.

Cold. Focused. Patient in a terrifying kind of way.

“You really thought you were off the hook, didn’t you?” he murmured darkly, amused.

My fingers closed around the fleece. One tug. Another. I peeled the material over my head, my skin goose- pimpling in the cooler air of the cell, my thoughts a spiraling mess of shame and fear.

Why was I always so quick to do anything he tells me?

Maybe because I knew how quickly his temper could peak? Maybe because I knew that above all else, he was a dangerous man?! Or maybe… just maybe… something about it all actually excited me…

The soft white vest I thought I’d worn earlier today was, of course, still missing from my skin as I glanced down once again just to double check.

There I stood – nothing but my pale, trembling frame and the snug material of the sports bra I had stupidly exposed to the entire gym of criminals earlier…

It hugged my ribs, my cleavage involuntarily pushed upwards in a way that I now regretted more than anything.

It made me look needy. As though I was one of those desperate mint-green girls who only came here to hook up with an inmate…

The jumper instantly became a makeshift shield in my hands. I tried to cover myself with it instinctively.

But Coban stepped forward,

“Give it.”

Coban had a way of pushing everything too far… of blurring the lines between menace and attention, protection and possession.

And yet, my body… that traitorous body… it didn’t move away.

The chill on my bare skin. The thrum of adrenaline in my bloodstream. The smell of him – soap, sweat, and something darker clouded my thoughts completely.

“You don’t even realise how lucky you are,” he muttered, just barely audible. “You think any other inmate here would’ve slapped a bitch across the cafeteria for hitting their woman?”

My voice cracked as I whispered, “You didn’t have to hit her like that.”

He didn’t respond right away.

Then, slowly, he stepped in front of me again – his expression unreadable, eyes burning into mine.

“No. I didn’t,” he said flatly. “But I did it anyway. Because you’re mine.”

His words sank deep. Heavy. Final.

Mine.

He didn’t touch me.

He didn’t raise his voice.

But the weight of his stare, the gravity of those words, landed like iron shackles around my wrists.

“For as long as you’re in here, you’re mine entirely. Body included!”

And I knew right then – whatever this was between us, it wasn’t simple anymore.