I couldn't make Anders hate her, OP, but here's some righteous fury instead! Hope you like!
It had started out normally enough. A trip to the Gallows to deliver some obscure ingredient or another to Solvinus, and they were as relaxed as two apostates willingly entering the Gallows could be. Hawke had been laughing with Isabela over some dirty limerick, when Hawke had frozen on the spot. The blood drained out of her face at an alarming rate and her eyes were impossibly wide. She took a few steps back, seemingly without realizing it, eyes locked on a blonde-haired Templar about thirty feet away. The man didn't seem to notice Hawke staring, but that didn't stop Hawke from turning on her heel and practically running back to the docks. Anders, even with his longer stride, had difficulty keeping up with his lover.
"Love, where are you going? What about Sol?" She turned to look at him with the expression of a cornered hare.
"I-I-I'll come back tomorrow," she said, without breaking pace. "I can't...I can't."
Having reached the ferry to take them back to Lowtown, Hawke nearly left them behind in her haste to be away. Fenris and Isabela had to jog to keep from missing the boat. Hawke's obvious distress keep them from grumbling (too much, anyway). For the first time in the four years Anders had known her, Hawke was sick on the journey back.
Once back inside the estate, Hawke seemed to calm a bit, but she was still too pale for Anders liking. She was far too jittery, too, taking extra care to lock all the main and side doors that allowed entry into the house. Anders had tried to comfort her, but she had shrugged off his touch, every muscle in her body tensing tight enough to snap. She had quickly excused herself once they were home (and wasn't it strange, to call it 'home'?), and Anders took the opportunity to pace the length of the library floor in agitation.
All the signs were there; he didn't want to believe something like that had happened to Hawke (they would dare, they would dare to harm her, to sully her purity and destroy her pride?), but it was difficult to disbelieve what he saw in Hawke, what he had seen in so many apprentices and apostates and refugees. (They will die, all of them, every last Templar for this abuse! and Anders wasn't sure if it were his thoughts or Justice's, but didn't much care either way.) He managed to collect himself by the time Hawke came back downstairs looking for him, still looking too pale by far and with eyes too red, but scaring her would serve nothing. She was precious, and he would rather die than harm her (or allow those who harm her to live).
Perhaps it was cruel of him to ask now, when she was so vulnerable, but he had to know, had to let her know that he still loved her and would treat her no differently. Still, it hurt to see her fear, however momentary, turned on him when he uttered the words, "We need to talk."