Page 22 of Mark & Don't Tell

“I know,” I shout back.

“Don’t be late.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I mumble, shoving through the lobby door and out onto the sidewalk. I hear him grumble something about me being a bitch but let it slide. Normally, I’d say something back, but he’s my landlord, and he’s already pissed at me for being late with rent last month. I can’t afford to get kicked out, and I definitely can’t afford deposits on a new apartment.

My beat-up car is a welcome sight. I slide into the driver’s seat and glare at the apartment building. It’s not exactly dilapidated, but it’s not some fancy condo, like the place Quinn and her pack live. It’s an old, red brick building that’s seen better days. It’s home, for now. Eventually, I’ll move out.

Or, at least, I hope so. I don’t want to deal with John for the rest of my life.

Shaking off my self-pity, I turn on the car and pull out of my parking spot, ignoring the screeching sound the vehicle makes. That’s not a good sign. Maybe if I pretend I didn’t hear it, everything will be fine.

I definitely can’t afford car troubles.

While my dads would do anything to help me, Mom took every penny from the bank account when she left. Though my dads’ blue-collar jobs don’t exactly pay well, Letti comes from a wealthy family, and their financial situation has vastly improved. But I’m not about to take from them. I won’t be my mother. I’m an adult. I can take care of myself.

My car screeches as I take a turn, and I grimace.

Please don’t break.

By some miracle, my car makes it to my dads’ without further incident. There are several vehicles I don’t recognize in the driveway. A black and chrome truck that’s gorgeous and the newest model catches my eye. Envy zings through my system.

One day. One day, I’ll have enough money to buy something like that.

I park behind the fancy truck and shut off the engine, saying a little prayer to the transportation gods and begging them to give me a few more years with the old beater. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I have a vague plan. Move along the marketing career path. Get a new car. Maybe a house. Maybe buy a second pair of sheets.

Chewing on my lip, I study the house. Despite coming from money, Letti didn’t insist on buying the biggest one they could afford. Instead, they settled for a cute and spacious three-bedroom brick home. It’s a lot nicer than the house I grew up in, but part of me misses the threadbare carpet and familiar walls. Still, this is their home now, and my dads are happy. That’s all that matters.

I straighten my shoulders and head through the open garage and into the house, smiling when I hear Brock, my biological dad, laughing at something someone said. Voices overlap, and I breathe in, loving the smell of home. My own scent is still suppressed, thanks to that pill I took last night, but I applied a light coating of a lavender perfume, hoping no one would notice.

Slipping into the mudroom, I kick off my heeled ankle boots and hang up my purse on the array of hooks next to the pantry shelves. There’s a stack of clean clothes piled on the washer and dryer, and I smile to myself. Before my stepmom, it would’ve been a heaping mountain, but lately, my dads have been making an effort—folding laundry, planting gardens, making fancy family dinners.

Love has a way of making you better.

Or it has a way of reminding you that you’ll never be good enough. As that bitter thought enters my mind, my smile vanishes. Frowning at myself, I recite my new mantra, the one that’s supposed to help me heal my heart and get back to the Daria who swooned at the drop of a hat and squealed when the couples in the rom-com books finally kissed.

I am good enough. I deserve love. I love myself. I have a great ass and pretty tits.

Okay. I added that last one for my ego, but still. Fuck my ex-boyfriends for cheating on me. I’m amazing.

I deserve a pack who’ll love me.

“Why are you hiding, mija?” Lettícia is Mexican American, and while she’s only known me for a little over a year, there’s more love in her calling me her daughter than I’ve ever felt from my own mom.

“Hey, Letti. I was just putting my things down.”

She searches my face with rich brown eyes, features softening. Letti is gorgeous, with long dark hair, full eyebrows, plump lips, and defined cheekbones. My dads are definitely lucky she even gave them the time of day, but they cherish her, and she loves them back just as fiercely. Their romance was the kind that’s so perfectly sweet, it either makes you giddy or makes you want to scream into a pillow and agonize over why you can’t find something similar.

One guess as to what I did.

“Don’t be nervous. My family doesn’t bite,” she teases me.

“Are you sure about that?” I ask her with an arched brow. “I’ve seen Henry’s neck.”

She blushes, strands of her dark hair brushing over her cheeks as she dips her head. “Daria,” she hisses. “You shouldn’t talk about those things.”

“What? I’m an omega as well. I know what you all get up to when I’m not around.”

“You’re as bad as my brothers,” she grumbles, shaking her head. “Come. We’re all ready to eat.”

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