Page 259 of Hate Mates

Everything.

He’s destroying everything.

I ball my hands into fists once more. “I hate you! I fucking hate you, you… You…scum!”

He laughs. Not the icy chuckle this time, but an uproarious laugh that pisses me off even more.

Sure, I could have called him what he is. A prick. An asshole. A dick. A fucking bastard. But I’m in my mother’s bakery. She never used profanity, and somehow I feel it would degrade her memory if I used it in this place. I already said “Fuck you.” Any more than that and Mom will be rolling in her grave.

If she isn’t already. I’ve run her bakery into the ground, after all.

He continues chuckling, and his laughter only fuels my anger more, but I can’t help the tears that well up in my eyes. I wipethem away quickly, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

“Listen,” he says, his laughter turning into a smirk. “I don’t like this any more than you do. But it’s not personal, sweetheart. It’s just business.”

“Just business?” I echo, my voice hollow. “You come into my bakery, threaten me, destroy my property, and then have the audacity to say it’s not personal?”

He leans against the ruined counter, crossing his arms over his broad chest. His gaze never leaves mine, and his blue eyes are full of… I’m not sure. Perhaps a mixture of amusement and sympathy?

“It’s a tough world out there, Rachel,” he says, his voice devoid of any emotion. “You have to be tough to survive.”

“Iamtough,” I spit back at him. “But I’m not heartless.”

His eyes soften for a moment. But only a moment.

“You businesspeople are all alike,” he says. “You fuck up and then come running to Malcolm for an easy fix. Always positive you can turn things around in the allotted time. It never works.”

“I could have?—”

“Sweetheart,” he says, “if you all turned it around, I’d be out of work.”

“Out of work?” I scoff back. “And what a reputable job you have. You must be so proud.”

“It pays the bills.” He shrugs, his nonchalant demeanor only infuriating me further.

“I’d rather die than live your life.” I cross my arms.

A flash of something crosses his face—anger, maybe?—but it’s gone before I can decipher it. His features are once again impassive, as if carved from stone. A true professional.

“You might get your wish sooner than you think, sweetheart,” he says quietly, each word dripping with menace.

The threat hangs heavy in the air between us. But instead of cowering, I feel a rush of adrenaline. I will not be bullied by this man. Not here, not in my mother’s bakery.

“I’ll take my chances,” I retort, arms still crossed.

For a moment, his expression softens again, and I feel a pang of something that isn’t fear. It’s a strange sensation, like the calm before a storm.

Then, as quickly as it came, his gentleness is gone, replaced by the cold, hard intensity that seems to be his default setting.

He pushes off the counter and strides toward me. The intimidating aura that he carries around him seems to crush me, and I involuntarily take a step back, bumping into one of my ruined display cases. Glass crunches under my loafers.

“Be careful what you wish for, Rachel,” he murmurs.

His proximity is electrifying. His eyes are inscrutable, but underneath is something else… Desire? No, it couldn’t be. This man is a machine—a hired muscle who wouldn’t know feelings if they bit him on his ass.

He turns to leave but stops at the door and looks back at me. “Tell you what. One night with me. Tonight. From now until dawn. You’re my fucking sex slave. You do whatever I want.”

“And?” I gulp.

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