Rejected and Pregnant I Fled The Pack (Evelyn and Damon) novel Chapter 129

Chapter 129

Damon pov

I got home late again, exhausted from another fruitless day spent coordinating search efforts across the pack’s territory, Genevieve still frustratingly, dangerously elusive despite everything we’d thrown at finding her

The apartment was quiet when I entered, most of the lights dimmed for the evening, and I made my way toward the kitchen out of habit, intending to grab something quick before finally collapsing into bed.

I stopped in the doorway.

My father sat alone at the kitchen table, hunched forward, his shoulders shaking with quiet, barely contained sobs, one hand pressed against his mouth as though trying to physically hold back the sound. Tears streamed down his face in the dim light, and something in his posture-small, folded inward, utterly unlike the commanding presence I’d known my entire life-stopped me completely.

He looked broken. Genuinely, thoroughly broken in a way I hadn’t witnessed even during the most difficult moments of his recovery, even during his earlier grief about my mother, even during the raw vulnerability of nearly dying twice.

He looked scared.

I didn’t announce myself, some instinct telling me he needed this moment, whatever it actually represented, without an audience watching him fall apart. I backed away quietly, my chest tight with concern and old, complicated tenderness, and made my way toward our bedroom instead, intending to give him whatever privacy this obviously difficult moment required.

A gentle tap on my shoulder stopped me before I’d gone far. Evelyn stood there, her expression carrying quiet, careful concern, and she gestured silently toward our small study, waiting until we were both inside with the door closed before speaking.

“He’s been there for a while,” she said softly, keeping her voice low despite the closed door between us and the kitchen. “I found him about twenty minutes ago. I tried asking if he needed anything, but he just shook his head,

said he needed to be alone for a bit.”

“Do you know what triggered it,” I asked, settling onto the small couch, exhaustion and fresh worry both weighing heavy.

“Not exactly,” Evelyn said, sitting beside me. “He’d been quiet most of the evening, more withdrawn than usual. I think it might be everything accumulating the attack, the ongoing danger, the physical limitations he’s still struggling to accept. Sometimes grief and fear just need somewhere to actually go, rather than staying perpetually suppressed.”

I nodded slowly, understanding the wisdom in that even as concern continued building in my chest. “I’ve never seen him like this. Not once, in my entire life. Even during the divorce, even watching Mom finally leave, he maintained this careful, controlled composure. This is different.”

“Maybe that’s exactly the point,” Evelyn said gently. “Maybe he’s finally allowing himself to actually feel everything he’s been suppressing for years, decades even, rather than continuing to perform strength regardless of genuine internal cost.”

I considered that, thinking about everything he’d survived these past several weeks the health crisis, the reckoning with his own past failures, the terror of the attack, the difficult, humbling work of accepting physical dependence he’d never previously experienced.

1/2

+15 Benus

“Should I go to him,” I asked, uncertain of the right approach given how thoroughly private he’d apparently wanted this particular breakdown to remain.

“I think you should,” Evelyn said. “Gently, though. Let him know you’re there without necessarily demanding he explain everything immediately.”

I nodded, appreciating her guidance, and made my way back toward the kitchen, moving more deliberately this time, allowing my footsteps to be audible before I actually entered, giving him whatever moment he needed to compose himself if he chose to.

He was still there when I entered, though he’d wiped at his face hastily, some visible effort made to regain composure despite the obvious redness still evident around his eyes.

“Dad.” I kept my voice soft, settling into the chair across from him rather than immediately pressing for explanation.

“Damon.” His voice came out rough, and he cleared his throat, attempting to steady it further. “I didn’t realize you were home yet.”

“Just got in,” I said, watching him carefully. “Are you okay?”

He was quiet for a long moment, staring down at his hands folded on the table, before finally shaking his head slightly. “No. I don’t think I am, actually.”

Something in that honest admission, so different from his usual careful deflection, settled heavy in my chest. ” Talk to me. Whatever’s happening, I’m here.”

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