Page 271 of Hate Mates

“Did we make it?” I ask, grimacing under the throbbing pain in my side.

“We’re at the hospital,” she says, her voice shaking. “You’re going to be okay.”

My head sinks back into the hospital pillow as relief washes over me. “And Price?”

Rachel gives me a pained look. “He’s in custody. The police came after I called for an ambulance. They found him unconscious and… And…”

I want to touch her. Want to offer her something. Anything. “Hey,” I say quietly, trying to ease her distress. “It’s over now. You’re safe.”

A tear slips from her eye. She quickly wipes it away and gives me a weak smile. “I was so scared, Bracken. I didn’t know if you were going to…”

I let out a gravelly chuckle. “Only the good die young, sweetheart.”

She cocks her head. “Bracken…”

I hold up a hand to quiet her. “This is the end of the line for me, Rachel. Go. Your debt is paid, and I’ll make sure the damage to your bakery is repaired. I’ll see to all of it. Leave. Take back your life. Forget you ever saw me.”

She drops her jaw.

But then she leaves the hospital room.

I scoff even as sadness overwhelms me.

Did I really think she would stay?

Chapter Nineteen

RACHEL

Outside the hospital room, I lean against the wall, my heart hammering in my chest. Bracken wants me to leave, to forget him, to go back to my old life as if none of this ever happened. But how can I?

The image of him lying on that hospital bed, his face pale and drawn in pain, haunts me. But his words hurt more than anything else.

How could he just push me away like that?

“Damn you, Bracken,” I whisper, wiping the tears from my cheeks.

An hour later, I’m back at the bakery. The place is a mess—shelves overturned, pastries scattered all over, and glass shards glittering on the floor.

It’s a disaster, but it’s my disaster.

I spend my days fixing up what Price ruined. The physical exhaustion is a welcome relief from the emotional turmoil swirling through me. But no amount of scrubbing can clean away the memories of Bracken.

His icy laughter. His anger.

His sacrifice.

He’s true to his word. Repairmen show up the next day, and within a week my place is as good as new. Better even.

No one has shown up to collect the remainder of my debt, so he must have made good with that, too.

I throw myself into my work, kneading dough until my hands are sore and decorating cakes until my eyes blur. Days turn into weeks and weeks into months.

Until one Sunday—the only day the bakery is closed—when a knock at the door startles me.

“Who could that be?” I say to myself as I walk to the entrance and pull open the glass door—I’ve covered it with blinds since the remodel—expecting perhaps a customer or a delivery man.

My heart nearly stops.

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