Page 51 of Mark & Don't Tell

“Fucking cunts,” he growls before storming away. His putrid scent lingers in my cubicle, and I hate it.

“Hey,” Mandy says softly.

I blink hard a few times before smiling at her. “Thanks for coming to the rescue.”

She searches my face. “Don’t let his words get to you, okay? He obviously has horrible taste. You’re gorgeous and you’re a hard worker. You deserve this opportunity.”

Nodding, I whisper thanks. I know my presentation was amazing, but the shock of finding my scent matches and Arnold’s horrible words overshadow that fact.

“Do you want to take the day off?”

“No, I’m good,” I promise her.

She nods. “All right. I need to go deal with him and figure out who will cover Keisha.”

“For what it’s worth, I think Jane might be a really good candidate.”

Mandy grins. “I was thinking the same thing.” She taps the edge of my cubicle door and heads off to finalize firing Arnold.

Focusing on work is impossible after that interaction. I pull out my phone, stomach dropping when I see more than a few missed calls from my mom and several texts from Marco, my half-brother.

Marco

Can you come over?

I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t serious.

Mom hasn’t paid rent or utilities, and the landlord says, if she doesn’t pay today, he’s evicting us.

Heart clenching, I tap out a quick response. Guess I’ll be taking the time off that Mandy offered.

Mandy, the angel that she is, didn’t even bat an eye when I sought her out and asked if it was still okay to take the rest of the day. I didn’t tell her my family drama, and she didn’t ask. She simply nodded and sent me on my way.

My car makes a clunking sound as I stop outside of the dilapidated structure that is posing as a home. A broken shutter hangs off one of the first-floor windows. The screen door’s wire mesh is broken and flapping in the wind. The small stoop is surrounded by broken furniture and a couple bags of trash. Marco insisted on coming over to my apartment for our Friday-night-movie marathon, and now I can’t help but wonder if this was why.

How long has it been since Mom paid for waste management?

With my stomach in knots, I climb out of the car and make sure it’s locked before heading to the door. My old beater isn’t nice, by any means, but I can’t afford to have it stolen.

I don’t bother knocking. My nose wrinkles as I open the door. As the stench of curdled milk hits me, my stomach turns. Mom is shouting in her bedroom, cursing out someone named Ron. A deep scowl tugs at my features. Marco is sitting on the couch, earphones in. He probably has the music turned up loud enough to drown her out. I taught him that trick.

The inside of the house is mostly clean, and I know that’s not because of Mom. She couldn’t care less. The carpet is disgusting, stained and littered with cigarette holes, and there are a few pipes scattered across the counter, only one of which is for pot.

Fucking hell.

My eyes fill with tears, but I force them back and head over to Marco. I tap his shoulder, and the way he startles at the simple contact has me seeing red. The fear quickly bleeds from his eyes. But I saw it.

What the fuck has been going on?

“Daria, you came.”

Marco’s lilac perfume is the only good thing about this place. He’s a young omega, so his scent is faint, but it’s enough to erase the other putrid odors filling the house. Although Marco’s dad isn’t in the picture, I imagine my half-brother is the spitting image of his father, with a rich, medium-brown complexion, dark eyebrows and hair, amber eyes, and a charming smile—that is, when he’s smiling.

Right now, there’s a hard line between his eyebrows and sadness in his eyes that weren’t there before.

“You asked,” I tell him with a watery smile.

He spots the tears and looks away. “It’s not as bad as it seems.”

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