Page 34 of Hate Mates

She chose him.

We both lived with that mistake.

Her jaw bounced, chewing on the statement.

“Sorry about that, honey,” Poppy cooed, entering the dining room. “She’s remaking it now…” her voice petered off, her worried stare bouncing between us. “Everything okay?”

Run. Go ahead. Run just like you always do,I dared her.

Sutton exhaled the breath she’d been holding. “Everything’s just fine.”

FOUR

Sutton

Aunt Poppy was marrying Lucifer’s-had-to-be-adopted-because-there’s-no-way-they-shared-DNA father.

If it wasn’t for their mirrored plush mouths, the shock of dark hair, and their similar builds, I would have demanded a paternity test—no offense to the late Mrs. Eckhart or anything.

Truthfully, I was happy for my Aunt Poppy.

She’d married my uncle Garrett fresh out of high school—there wasn’t much else to do in Rockchapel after graduation—but was a widow before her twenty-fourth birthday. My uncle had gone on a fishing excursion with friends, and his boat had capsized. They never found him.

Being the only living relative left and settled in Boston with my mom, when it came time to settle the estate—my grandparent’s farmhouse—my dad told Aunt Poppy it was her home, and she was welcome to stay there as long as she wanted.

Aunt Poppy accepted. Who would have thought a few years later, I’d be living with her, too? She took on the burden of raising a child she didn’t share blood with.

My aunt had done everything in her power to give me as normal of a childhood as possible. Because of her, I never felt like anything was missing. I had a guardian who was prepared to play the role of mother, father, and friend for the rest of my life.

She was a woman who lived within her means, making ends meet by slinging produce she grew at the farmers’ market on the weekend and working the circulation desk at the small library in town during the week. We clipped coupons, never wasted food, and always squeezed the last dab of toothpaste out of the tube.

Grant was always in the background of my memories. He changed the oil in Aunt Poppy’s ’99 Subaru Forester for her, always cleared the driveway for us in the winter, and was the first to get hands deep in the dirt with her come harvest season when I was conveniently MIA, spending time with boys I shouldn’t in a pathetic attempt to get the attention of the one I wanted most.

“You chose wrong. But I never did.”

No, I’d chosen right. He just hadn’t noticed until it was too late. Until I was too deeply entrenched in Peter’s world to escape because the words “it’s over” didn’t mean anything to hisfriendthe way they should have.

By the time Peter discovered my motivation to end the relationship wasn’t because he’d hit me… it was too late. So, yes. I wished when Peter had asked Damien to choose between the knife held to my throat or the heated branding iron in Damien’shand that his father had forged himself, that Damien had chosen my death instead.

I wished he’d listened to me when I screamed,“Let me die!”so I didn’t have to live with the memory of that night any more than I had to carry the responsibility of the role I’d played, too.

I’d only gone out with Peter to get Damien’s attention.

By the time I realized I’d had it all along—I sunk lower in the overfilled tub, the water sloshing over the rim—there was no going back.

The Founding Sons of Rockchapel didn’t like being told ‘no.’ They’d gotten away with it. They branded me like cattle because if they couldn’t have me, no one could.

Not even me.

My life was meaningless to them. I was a commodity. Something to possess, own, to barter with, like some kind of tool. But I could have died with my memories that night. I could have died as I remembered myself, with Damien’s taste still on my lips.

I nudged the faucet's nozzle with my toe, water dribbling from the spout. It wasn’t fair Damien still looked good. That his hairline hadn’t shown evidence of recession, the slate of his abdomen remained flat and not round from years of overindulgence, and he hadn’t spontaneously grown a puss-filled abscess-like growth that consumed half of his face.

No. He had to look better than ever. Gorgeous with that squared-off jaw, freshly shaven, long, clever nose, and unblemished complexion.

I wasn’t good enough for him. If I ever was.

He should have let me eat that fucking salad.

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