Rejected and Pregnant I Fled The Pack (Evelyn and Damon) novel Chapter 95

Chapter 95

Evelyn pov

I woke slowly, sunlight filtering soft through the curtains, and found Damon already awake beside me, propped on one elbow, watching me with an expression so openly tender it made my breath catch slightly.

“You look beautiful in your sleep,” he said quietly, reaching over to brush a strand of hair away from my

face.

“That’s a low bar,” I said, my voice still thick with sleep, though I couldn’t quite suppress the small, pleased smile tugging at my mouth. “I probably drooled.”

“You didn’t,” he said, laughing softly. “Though even if you had, I’d still think you were beautiful.”

I studied him for a moment, taking in the genuine warmth in his expression, still slightly disoriented by how natural this had become again-waking up beside him, sharing these small, unguarded morning moments that felt increasingly like the life we might have actually built together if everything eight months ago hadn’t fallen apart so catastrophically.

“I’m sorry,” he said then, his voice softening further, something serious replacing the earlier warmth. “For everything I did, my love. I know I’ve said it before, but I don’t think there’s a version of saying it that feels like enough, given everything you went through because of my choices.”

Something in my chest tightened gently at that, familiar now after weeks of this same quiet ritual— Damon apologizing every single day, sometimes in these small, private morning moments, sometimes more formally when something specific reminded him of the pain he’d caused. I’d noticed the pattern weeks ago, understood it wasn’t performance or manipulation, just genuine, consistent acknowledgment that refused to simply fade into comfortable silence now that things between us were healing.

“I know,” I said softly, reaching to rest my hand against his chest, feeling the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat beneath my palm. “I believe you, Damon. I think I’ve believed you for a while now, actually.”

“You don’t have to say that just because things are going well,” he said carefully. “I don’t want you feeling pressured into forgiveness just because we’re in a good place right now.”

“I’m not,” I said, meaning it fully. “I’m telling you because it’s true. I still remember what happened, still feel the weight of it sometimes, especially on harder days. But I believe you’re genuinely sorry, and more than that, I believe you’re actually different now than you were then. That matters more to me than perfect, complete forgiveness ever could.”

He studied me for a long moment, something vulnerable and grateful moving behind his eyes, before he leaned in and kissed me softly, unhurried, nothing demanding in it, just genuine warmth and gratitude expressed through simple, gentle contact.

“Ready for breakfast,” he asked eventually, pulling back slightly, though he made no immediate move to actually leave the bed.

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“In a minute,” I said, settling more comfortably against the pillows, unwilling yet to abandon the quiet intimacy of the morning. “Tell me something first. Why do you apologize every day? I’ve noticed the pattern, and I don’t think it’s just habit.”

He considered the question seriously, taking his time before answering. “I think, honestly, it’s because I never want to reach a point where I stop actively remembering the weight of what I did. Where I let myself off the hook simply because enough time has passed, or because things are going well now, or because you’ve forgiven me enough that I can comfortably stop thinking about it.”

“That’s a heavy way to live,” I said gently. “Constant, daily acknowledgment of guilt.”

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But I think the alternative is worse. I think if I stop actively remembering, stop consciously choosing every single day to be different than I was, some part of me might eventually slide back toward old patterns without even realizing it was happening. Watching my father these past weeks, watching him try to genuinely reckon with thirty years of similar patterns, I understand now how easily complacency creeps in when you stop actively examining your own choices.”

I thought about that, about everything I’d witnessed these past several weeks-not just Damon’s consistent, daily accountability, but his father’s genuine struggle to actually transform after decades of entrenched behavior, my own careful, gradual process of learning to trust again after eight months of hard-won independence.

“That makes sense,” I said finally. “I appreciate it, honestly. Even on days when I don’t need to hear it, when I’ve already moved past whatever specific memory might have prompted it. Knowing you’re still actively holding yourself accountable, rather than just assuming enough time has passed to stop thinking about it-that matters.”

“Good,” he said softly, relief evident in his expression. “I was worried, actually, that it might start to feel repetitive or performative eventually. Like I was just going through motions instead of genuinely meaning it each time.”

“It doesn’t feel that way,” I assured him. “It feels like exactly what it apparently is-genuine, ongoing commitment to actually staying different, rather than assuming the work is finished just because things are going well now.”

We lay together in comfortable silence for a while longer, sunlight continuing its slow crawl across the bedroom floor, before a soft, insistent cry from the nursery pulled us both toward the more immediate demands of the morning.

“I’ll get her,” Damon said, already moving to rise. “You rest a few more minutes.”

“I’m awake now,” I said, though I appreciated the offer, watching him pad toward the nursery with obvious, practiced ease.

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