Chapter 111 Coban’s POV

My fists clenched at my sides, veins tight, my lungs too tight. The words wanted to spill, but they came jagged, halting, dangerous.

“Did you assume I was born like this? Angry. Fucked up. Like my whole life was a prison before these walls ever locked me in? No. It was him. He made sure of it.”

Her breath caught – barely audible, but I heard it.

“I saw him when I had my hand on your throat,” I forced out, my voice rawer, harsher. “Not you. Him. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face. And for one second…” I broke off, my chest rising hard, the words stuck.

My throat burned. My vision blurred with memories I couldn’t drown. “For one second I thought I could finally kill him. Get rid of him. But it wasn’t him under my grip, was it? It was you. And that…”

My voice cracked low and entirely unsteady. “That’s on me.”

I forced myself to turn then, to face her. To look at the way she was holding herself as she watched me, cautious but not broken.

Not yet.

Her book still rested in her lap, but her hands trembled faintly around it. Her lips parted like she wanted to say something, but no sound came out.

The sight of her – still here, still listening, still real – hit me harder than any weight I’d lifted today.

I swallowed, my mouth drying. “I’m telling you because I don’t want you thinking it’s just cruelty for the sake of cruelty. I don’t want you thinking it’s you.”

My chest heaved once, twice, like the words had emptied me.

“Because it isn’t. It’s him. It’s always been him.”

For a long time, she didn’t move.

She just sat there, book resting against her knees, her eyes fixed on me like she wasn’t sure if I’d just told the truth or if this was some kind of test. The kind of test where the wrong answer meant broken bones.

My pulse thundered in my ears.

Then, finally, her fingers shifted against the worn spine of the book, fidgeting with it to stay level-headed.

She swallowed, and when she spoke, her voice was softer than I expected.

“You… saw him. Instead of me…”

It wasn’t a question. She was trying to make sense of it, stringing my jagged words together into something whole.

I nodded once, sharp. My jaw felt like it might lock up if I tried to explain it again.

Her brows pinched slightly, her lips pressing into a line before parting again. “And… he’s the reason you…” She stopped, searching for the word. She didn’t say hurt me, but it hung between us anyway.

She finished differently: “…the reason you are the way you are.”

I dragged a breath in through my nose, then exhaled slow, like if I wasn’t careful, I’d split open.

“Yeah.” My voice was gravel. “He made sure of it. Raised me to be tough…”

The silence stretched. She blinked at me, once, twice.

And then, to my shock, she didn’t shrink back. She didn’t fold into herself the way I half-expected. She leaned forward, just slightly, enough for her hair to slip over her shoulder and her book to tilt in her lap.

“But what exactly did he do to you?”

The question cracked something in me.

I’d expected her to ask why. Or to tell me I was a monster. Or to stay silent, like most people did when faced with something ugly. But instead, her voice was steady, even if her hands trembled.

She actually wanted to know what I’d gone through…

My mind raced to think up a response.

My first instinct was to shut her down, to snarl for her to drop it and turn my back. To bury it like I always had. But the words jammed in my throat, my father’s voice sneering behind them.

‘Weak little bastard.’

‘You can’t even speak.’

‘Can’t even breathe without my say-so.’

My fists clenched.

My chest drew a breath.

I wanted to tell her. God help me, I wanted to. But dragging those memories into the light felt like peeling skin off bone.

“He uh…” My voice cracked and I stopped, slamming my teeth together until my jaw ached.

Margot’s eyes stayed on me, wide but not afraid – not of me, anyway.

I looked at her too long before I knew I had to say something…

“He liked having total control,” I forced out finally, my words jagged. “Every breath, every step, every bruise was his. You didn’t eat unless he said. You didn’t sleep unless he allowed it. And if you messed up…” I cut off with a harsh breath, shaking my head. “Doesn’t matter how. He made you pay. Made me pay. Over and over until…”

Until I stopped being a kid and started being something else entirely.

Margot’s lips parted, but she didn’t speak. Her fingers curled tighter around the book instead, pressing it to her knees like an anchor.

My chest burned, every muscle in my body locked tight. I’d given her more than I’d given anyone in years, maybe ever, and the urge to lash out, to cover it up with anger, gnawed at me.

I almost told her to forget it, to never bring it up again.

But then she did something I didn’t expect.

She whispered, “That’s why you grabbed me like that, isn’t it? Because for a second… you thought you could get justice for it.”

Her words were direct and truthful.

I looked at her, really looked at her, and saw that she wasn’t mocking me. She wasn’t pitying me either. She was… piecing it together. Trying to understand me.

And it made me feel naked. Vulnerable in a way I’d never actually been before.

My hands curled up into fists again, veins standing out against my skin.

I wanted to deny it, to bark out a laugh and tell her she was wrong. But the truth sat heavy in my chest, immovable.

“Yeah,” I muttered, low, raw. “That’s exactly why.”

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. She didn’t look away. She didn’t run.

But somehow, that was worse.

More confusing.

Because standing there, staring at her steady eyes and trembling hands, I realized I’d just handed her the sharpest weapon she could ever hold against me.

And she didn’t even know it.

The silence between us pulsed, heavier than the steel door bolted shut behind me.

Margot’s gaze flicked down, then back up again, her lips parting, then pressing shut like she was fighting with herself.

Finally, she let out a small breath and spoke – quiet.

“So when I told you that my own father gave me the bruise on my face before I came here…”

Her voice trailed off, the memory of it hanging there.

That yellowing-blue mark on her cheek. The way she’d tried to brush it off when we first met.

I felt something coil tight in my chest.

I gave a single nod. “Yeah,” I rasped, my throat thick. “I could relate more than I let on.”