The Prison Project (by Bethany Donaghy) novel Chapter 194

Margot’s POV

The air felt… dark.

I began to sweat uncontrollably since sitting down across from this man. The nerves and throbbing questions of why he was even here to talk to me, were sending me in to a panic alone.

I perched myself on the corner of the sofa closest to the door, my back straight, my hands folded tightly together in my lap to stop them from trembling.

Every instinct in my body screamed at me to leave to get up, open the door, run back to Cara, back to safety as quick as I could.

But I didn’t dare to move.

Because something about this man told me that walking away from him wouldn’t be that simple.

Coban’s father watched me.

Not casually.

Not politely.

But like he was assessing me… measuring something I couldn’t quite understand just yet.

And then-

He clicked his tongue.

Slow.

Disapproving.

The sound echoed far louder than it should have in the quiet room as he shook his head from side to side.

“You’re pretty banged up…” he said, his voice smooth, almost conversational.

But there was something underneath it.

Something sharper.

“Poor thing…” His eyes dragged over my face again, over my posture, the way I was sitting – taking in every detail of the damage inflicted on my skin like it was information he intended to use against me later.

“This was Coban’s doing, no doubt?” My breath caught at that accusation.

“W-What?” I babbled, and for a split second I just stared at him, my lips parting in shock before my brain caught up.

“N-No – no!” I said quickly, sitting up straighter despite the pain it caused me.

“This wasn’t Coban,” I rushed to tell him, shaking my head. “I got caught up in the middle of a fight… a gang fight, in the hallway. On the way back to our cell.”

I swallowed hard and forced myself to meet his eyes…

To hold his gaze…

Because something told me he’d know if I lied, and for once, I wasn’t…

This actually wasn’t Coban.

I wasn’t going to let him take the blame for something he didn’t do. For marks he didn’t create. For pain he didn’t inflict.

“Wrong place, wrong time for me… I just got caught in the middle of it,” I repeated again, quieter now.

But there was only another beat of silence, causing my skin to crawl under his stare.

He didn’t respond straight away.

Just watched me.

Studied me more.

Like he was trying to peel me apart layer by layer with his damn eyes before:

“Hmm.” The sound was low and almost missed.

But I caught it.

That slight edge of disbelief, like he knew I was telling the truth but didn’t quite buy the whole story?

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