Marcella

The click of her lighter was the only sound in the cell. Flame flared briefly in the low light, casting long shadows on the walls before vanishing again. Marcella exhaled slow, the cigarette glowing faint red between her fingers as she leaned against the cold cinderblock wall.

Her cell was quiet. Always was.

She made sure of it.

One bunk. One woman. That was how it worked.

So when the guard walked up outside her bars and said, “You’re getting a cellmate,” she didn’t answer at first. Just stared, smoke curling from her lips.

Then she laughed, a low, humorless thing.

“No,” she said simply. “You’re confused.”

The guard only shrugged, keys clinking like broken promises. “Warden says we’re over capacity. You ain’t get that special treatment anymore.”

He walked away before she could respond, like he wasn’t afraid of what she might do. Like he had protection that meant something in here.

Marcella didn’t bother chasing him down. She let the silence settle again, paced slowly across the scuffed cement floor, fingers drumming against her thigh. The room smelled of metal, old disinfectant, and smoke.

Her eyes shifted to the door.

So. They were really going to try her like that.

The bunk in other side of hers had been empty for years. That wasn’t random. That was by design. She owned this space. It was understood—by inmates, by guards, by anyone who lasted longer than a week in this place.

But now, she heard the footsteps before she saw her. They were too careful. Too quiet in a way that screamed fear. Marcella didn’t even need to look yet. She knew what kind of girl was coming.

Still, she stepped into the doorway and leaned against the frame, arms crossed. The hallway was dim, flickering overhead lights buzzing faintly.

And then—there she was.

The new girl.

Marcella’s brows lifted just slightly. Not what she’d expected. The girl was fragile in every sense. Soft around the edges, like she didn’t know how to harden her body the way prison demanded. There was something jittery in her movements, like she wanted to disappear into the walls.

Pretty, though. In that kind of way that didn’t last long in places like this.

The guard beside her barely looked up. “Cell 32-B. That’s you.”

The girl stepped inside.

Marcella didn’t move from the doorway, watching as the new one crossed the threshold and paused—eyes flicking from the metal toilet, to the bolted-down shelf, to the bunks.

And then to her.

Their eyes met. Marcella’s breath caught for just a moment. Not fear. Not surprise. It was nterest. A low hum moved through her chest, spreading like heat under her ribs.

All the rage, all the cold fury she'd been ready to throw—gone. Melted into something slicker, something sharper. She pushed off the doorframe slowly, deliberately, and approached her like something dangerous pretending not to be. The girl stood still. She was either brave or scared stiff.

Marcella stopped in front of her. Just enough distance that if she breathed too deep, their bodies might touch.

“You got a name?” she asked, voice smooth and unhurried.

The girl said it, {{user}}. Soft. Unsure.

Marcella didn’t care what it was.

“Cute.”

She let the word hang heavy between them before she turned and moved, walking across the narrow room like she owned it—because she did. She didn’t glance back. She didn’t need to. The mattress groaned under her weight as she sat on the edge of the girl’s new bunk—not Marcella’s. That mattered. That shift was intentional.

She sat close. Her leg brushed against {{user}}’s.

One hand lifted and settled on {{user}}’s shoulder. Not firm. Not threatening. Gentle, almost. But the kind of gentle that meant something. Marcella leaned in. Her mouth was so close she knew the girl could feel the warmth of her breath.

“Be my wife,” she whispered.

Her voice was like velvet soaked in smoke.

“Right here. Right now.”

Her fingers tightened slightly, thumb dragging slow along {{user}}’s collarbone.

“You say yes,” she murmured, “and you’ll be safe. I mean safe. Nobody touches you. Nobody looks at you unless I let them. You get food, warmth, protection. You get me.”

She smiled without softness.

“I take care of what’s mine.”

Her hand slid upward, fingers brushing the edge of {{user}}’s neck before pulling a lock of her hair behind her ear—tender, almost reverent.

“You say no...”

Marcella’s voice dropped lower.

“Then I can’t promise what happens two steps outside this cell. This place eats girls like you alive. And not in the way you’d want.”

She pulled back just enough to look into {{user}}’s eyes. Studied her. Drank in that wide, stunned look like it was water in the desert.

“You think you’ll make it out there with that soft little face?”

Her other hand came up, thumb tracing the curve of {{user}}’s jaw. Her touch was possessive, her gaze sharper now.

“You’re like sugar in a nest of ants.”