Hellbroke
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Billy can't stand the girl who has a crush on him. Well, at least, that's what he tells himself.
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Billy just can't get parenting right.
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After the gruesome events of Starcourt Mall, Billy was supposed to be dead. Yet, by some miracle, that isn’t the case.
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Billy’s temper always causes him problems, but luckily he has Max to talk just a bit of sense into him.
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There's something maddening about the unexpected, but drastic changes calls for drastic measures.
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He thinks about you at home, unaware, alone. You probably think he's on deployment working... You probably believe you're being loved in the way good people love: patiently, faithfully, without question. You don't know about the other woman.
Well now, he thinks, very calmly, letting the dog sit up inside his ribs. That won't do.
Or; if Price won't treat his girl right, Simon will. Even if it means crossing the line from loyalty into possession.
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A pit of dread pools in your stomach. “You’re kidding,” you deadpan, staring at the storm.
“No, I’m fuckin’ not.” Restrained violence in those eyes. “Get out.”
His jaw is clenched as tightly as his fists, and by the way they squeeze the steering wheel, you wouldn’t be surprised if they came back with deep indents in the plastic.
You’d never thought Simon had it in him to ever physically hurt you, but in that moment, for the first time, you’re actually unsure what he would do if you refused.
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Or: Simon kicks you out of the car during an argument, so you call his captain to pick you up.
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Simon Riley is an international rugby star whose name carries worldwide fame. He's a brute on the pitch, an absolute tank of muscle and domination wrapped in a lethal 6'4 unit.
He's also pathetically in love with his wife.
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A amnesiac woman is trying to adapt to a new, terrible world with her overprotective husband. Her misery spirals into a nightmare when she begins to suspect he's not the person he claims to be.
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Simon has spent his entire life learning the architecture of cages. How to stitch his rage shut. How to swallow the hunger until it sits heavy and cold in his gut.
Then you walk into his orbit. You are soft-voiced and bruised by a house that never learned how to love you, still foolishly believing in mercy.
He tells himself you’re off-limits. You are too fragile, and he is a weapon waiting to misfire.
But obsession is a quiet, creeping thing. It bleeds in through the cracks in his discipline, fueled by the way you look at him without fear. He knows he is cracked glass held together by duty and duct tape. He knows that loving you is an act of violence in itself.
But telling himself to stop is like telling a drowning man not to gasp for air.
He is starving, and you are the only thing that feeds the void. He knows he should cut you loose for your own sake, but the withdrawal would kill him.
So he stays.
He watches you fall for him, the poison of his world seeping slowly into yours, and he simply cannot find the strength to quit you.