Rejected and Pregnant I Fled The Pack (Evelyn and Damon) novel Chapter 169

Damon pov

The DNA samples had been sent off three days earlier, and now there was nothing to do but wait—wait for results that would either confirm or dismantle the disturbing story Nadia and Constance had told me, wait to understand exactly what my father had actually survived all those years ago, wait to see what this meant for all of us going forward.

I'd spent those three days watching my father unravel in slow, quiet increments. He wasn't sleeping well, according to my mother. He'd started flinching at unexpected touch, something none of us had ever witnessed from him before, and I understood, watching him retreat further into himself with each passing day, that whatever Genevieve had actually done to him all those years ago had reopened something he'd never properly processed or understood before now.

"He keeps saying he's going to lose us," my mother told me quietly, two days into the wait, her own eyes carrying the same exhausted worry I imagined mirrored my own. "That if this woman is genuinely his daughter, it somehow means he's fundamentally damaged, or that we'll all look at him differently."

"That's not true," I said, though I understood the particular, illogical shape grief and trauma sometimes took. "None of this is his fault, Mom. If Genevieve genuinely violated him the way Nadia's claiming, he's the victim here, not someone who did anything wrong."

"I know that," she said. "I've told him that repeatedly. But Damon, I don't think logic is actually reaching him right now. He's genuinely convinced this discovery is going to somehow unravel everything we've been rebuilding."

I understood her worry, having witnessed enough of his withdrawn, haunted expression these past several days to recognize genuine crisis building beneath his careful attempts at composure.

Amid all of it, I found myself thinking about Evelyn, about how thoroughly this entire ordeal—Genevieve's escape, the arctic transfer, now this devastating revelation about my father's past and a potential sibling neither of us had ever known existed—had consumed nearly every moment of my attention these past several months. She'd been steady throughout all of it, patient and supportive despite managing a newborn, a toddler, and her own reasonable exhaustion, and I realized, watching her that evening settling Ethan down for the night, exactly how much I'd neglected simply being present with her, appreciating her, treating her like the actual center of my life rather than someone perpetually managing crisis alongside me.

She deserved better than that. She deserved an evening entirely focused on her, free from investigation updates and family crisis, even if just for a few hours.

I spent the following afternoon arranging everything carefully—candles throughout our living room, her favorite meal prepared with genuine care rather than simply ordered for convenience, Willow and Ethan settled with my mother for the evening so we could actually have uninterrupted time together.

"What is all this," Evelyn asked, stepping into the living room that evening, genuine surprise crossing her tired but lovely features as she took in the candlelit space, the carefully arranged table, the soft music I'd selected.

"You," I said simply, moving to take her hands. "You deserve an evening entirely focused on you, Evelyn. No investigation updates, no crisis management, just us, actually present together."

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