Rejected and Pregnant I Fled The Pack (Evelyn and Damon) novel Chapter 127

Chapter 127

Damon pov

+15 Bonus

Bringing my father home was an adjustment for everyone, the small guest room off our expanded quarters transformed into a makeshift recovery space, medical equipment discreetly arranged alongside furniture that made the whole setup feel less clinical, more like an actual extension of our family life rather than simply relocated hospital care.

He hated needing help. That much became obvious within the first few days, his stubborn refusal to actually ask for assistance colliding uncomfortably with the genuine physical limitations his damaged heart now imposed. I watched him attempt small tasks alone repeatedly-making his own tea, walking unassisted to the bathroom, once even trying to change his own bedding-each attempt leaving him visibly winded, pale, clearly struggling far more than his pride allowed him to actually acknowledge.

“You need to ask for help when you need it,” I told him one evening, finding him gripping the kitchen counter, breathing hard after what should have been the simple task of retrieving a glass of water.

“I’m managing,” he said, though his voice carried obvious strain, his hand still braced against the counter for support.

“You’re not,” I said firmly. “You’re pushing yourself exactly the way you did before the attack, exactly the pattern that contributed to your heart sustaining this much damage in the first place.”

He didn’t respond immediately, something stubborn and uncomfortable crossing his tired features, and I understood, watching him, that this particular struggle ran deeper than simple physical recovery-thirty years of never showing weakness, of maintaining commanding authority regardless of personal cost, all of it colliding now with a body that genuinely couldn’t sustain that same relentless independence

anymore.

“I don’t know how to be this,” he admitted finally, quietly, something raw beneath the careful words ‘ Someone who needs help with simple tasks. Someone visibly weak, visibly dependent on others.

“You’re recovering from major trauma,” I said gently. “Twice now, actually. That’s not weakness, Dad That’s simply reality, something that requires actual acceptance rather than continued denial

He nodded slowly, though I could tell the acceptance remained largely intellectual rather than genuinely internalized, old patterns clearly still fighting against the new reality his body now demanded he acknowledge.

I found myself watching him carefully over the following days, noting each small struggle, each moment of stubborn refusal to actually ask for assistance even when obviously needed, understanding this particular battle would likely take considerably longer to resolve than his physical healing alone

I came home one afternoon, having spent most of the day coordinating with Callum and pack security about the ongoing, still-unsuccessful search for Genevieve, exhausted and frustrated by the lack of progress, and found something that stopped me entirely in the doorway.

Evelyn stood in the hallway, one arm wrapped carefully around my father’s waist, supporting him as they

1/3

+15 Bonus

made their way slowly toward the kitchen together, his weight visibly leaning into her support despite his obvious discomfort with the arrangement.

“I’m too heavy,” he said softly, something genuinely vulnerable in his voice, clearly uncomfortable with how thoroughly he was leaning on her for actual physical support.

“You’re not,” Evelyn said gently, her voice carrying patient, steady reassurance despite the obvious physical effort of supporting him. “Just take it slow. We’re almost there.”

I stood frozen in the doorway for a moment, watching them, something complicated moving through my chest-gratitude, deep and genuine, at Evelyn’s continued willingness to extend this kind of practical, hands-on care despite everything complicated in their history. And underneath that gratitude, something more protective, watching my father’s obvious struggle, understanding exactly how difficult this particular vulnerability genuinely was for him.

“Need help,” I asked, finally announcing my presence, moving quickly to support his other side.

“I’ve got it,” Evelyn said, though she didn’t refuse my additional support, and together we guided him the rest of the way toward the kitchen table, settling him carefully into a chair.

He sat there for a moment, breathing hard, obvious frustration and embarrassment both crossing his tired features. “This is absurd,” he said, voice tight. “I used to run this entire pack, command warriors, and now I can’t walk twenty feet without needing to be physically supported.”

VERIFYCAPTCHA_LABELVerify