The Prison Project (by Bethany Donaghy) novel Chapter 96

Margot’s POV

The bathroom door clicked shut behind me like a lifeline snapping taut, cutting me off from him, from the storm of his voice still vibrating against the walls.

My hand lingered on the lock a moment too long, trembling fingers gripping the cold metal as if it were the only thing anchoring me.

My chest heaved, lungs scraping against bruised flesh every time I pulled in air. I bent forward, forehead resting against the back of my hand braced on the door, and only then did I let the first shaky breath escape me.

“Fuck!” I breathed out, relieved and unable to process it all.

It was definitely morning now. The pale light had crept in, curling through the slits of the narrow window, a faint silver hue brushing across the tile floor.

Soon, breakfast would be called. Soon, I’d have to step out of here. Step back in front of him.

But not yet.

Not yet.

I forced my legs to move, dragging myself toward the mirror above the sink.

My reflection wavered as though I were already drowning, and for a moment, I didn’t recognise myself – not the fresh girl who had returned from her day at the salon…

Oh no…

My once styled hair was a messy mop of tugs, my face pale, my eyes rimmed red, lashes clumped together from dried tears.

My lips parted slightly, breath shallow, as I didn’t quite believe how quickly I had returned back to this…

Back to being broken…

And then, I slowly peeled the shirt off…

The sound of the fabric dragging against my raw skin felt louder than it should have, like it had scraped against raw bone.

My throat burned before my gaze even met the mirror to see it…

I gasped.

My knees almost buckled beneath me at how bad it actually was.

The bruises had already begun to bloom across my skin, livid and ugly.

They climbed around my neck like a strangling hand frozen in time, each finger outlined, each press of his grip scorched red into my flesh as a reminder.

Five large distinct bruises etched into me like a brand – covering the entirety of the area.

I reached up with trembling fingers, tracing the marks. My skin was hot, swollen, the fire radiating outward.

I pressed too firmly without meaning to and hissed, jerking back, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.

The pain was sharp, a flash of lightning that seemed to pierce not only skin but the space between my ribs.

Everything began to hurt as the adrenaline drained from my body.

Breathing felt like swallowing glass. Turning my head was impossible without a wince. Even swallowing made my throat pulse and flare.

The simple act of existing was suddenly unbearable.

I leaned both hands against the edge of the sink, my reflection a mess of wet eyes and trembling lips. My vision blurred as the first tear slid down. Then another.

My chest tightened, my breath caught, and I bowed my head as silent sobs shook through me.

But I couldn’t stay here.

Couldn’t give up.

I went through the motions instead…

Toothbrush. Toothpaste. The simple, mundane act of brushing my teeth was grounding, almost laughably so. The bristles scraped, the mint burned, but it was real, something small I could control.

I spat, rinsed, and turned to the shower like it was salvation.

The water hissed to life, cold at first, then warming, steam unfurling across the mirror until my bruised reflection vanished into a blur.

I stripped the rest of the way, skin prickling under the open air, before stepping into the stream.

The water struck me like fire.

As cool as it was, my skin screamed as though it had been laid bare to flames. I let it pour over me anyway, let it rush across my shoulders, my throat, my chest, and I tilted my head back, eyes shut tight.

Deep breaths.

Slow.

In.

Then reality hit like a cruel reminder.

Crap!

I didn’t have any clothes…

I stared at the door, breath coming faster.

To get them, I’d have to step out there. Back into the cell. Back into the same space as him.

My pulse skipped.

Enough time had passed, long enough for him to cool down…

Right?

He wouldn’t lash out again. Not like that.

I told myself the words, even if I didn’t quite believe them.

Hand on the door, I twisted it slow…

He was still there.

Coban.

Seated on the floor, his back against the wall, his head tipped back, eyes shut. His hands hung loose at his sides, his knuckles still raw, blood smeared across the carpet where he’d dragged them.

His chest rose and fell, steady, but his jaw was still clenched.

He didn’t look like a man who had calmed down. He looked like a man who was on the brink of a breakdown…

And here I was, towel wrapped around me, staring at him, my heart pounding so hard it drowned out every sound in the room.

“Why are you out? I didn’t say you could come out.” His words came, but his eyes remained closed.

Shit, was it too soon…