Rejected and Pregnant I Fled The Pack (Evelyn and Damon) novel Chapter 187

Damon pov

We'd just settled around the table, Willow in her booster seat happily smearing mashed vegetables across her tray, Ethan dozing in his bassinet nearby, the first genuinely peaceful family dinner we'd managed in what felt like weeks, when my phone rang.

I felt the familiar, exhausted dread settle into my chest even before I checked the screen, some instinct already warning me this particular meal wasn't going to remain peaceful much longer.

"Callum," I answered, watching Evelyn's expression tighten with matching, resigned concern across the table.

"We've got a problem at the northern border," he said, his voice tight with genuine alarm. "The faction that was hunting Miriam's group—they've arrived. Demanding we hand over the rogues immediately."

I stood immediately, adrenaline flooding through my system. "How many?"

"At least fifteen, possibly more still arriving," Callum said. "Damon, they look genuinely unstable. Aggressive posturing, several already shifted despite the daylight hour, which given typical pack discipline suggests something considerably more volatile than standard diplomatic negotiation."

"I'm coming immediately," I said, already moving toward the door.

"Damon." Evelyn's voice caught me before I could fully leave, and I turned to find her standing, genuine fear evident in her expression despite her obvious effort to remain composed for Willow's sake. "Be careful. Please."

"I will be," I promised, moving to press a quick kiss against her forehead, then toward Willow's, understanding the genuine uncertainty of what I was walking toward. "Stay here, with additional security. I'll update you the moment I understand more."

She nodded, though worry remained heavy in her expression, and I made my way quickly toward the northern border, my mind racing through possibilities as Callum's earlier report continued echoing through my thoughts.

I arrived to find exactly the scene he'd described—a considerable group of werewolves gathered at the boundary line, several already shifted into their wolf forms despite the unusual daylight timing, their posture carrying genuine, unsettling aggression rather than the measured, careful diplomacy Miriam's original approach had demonstrated.

"You're harboring criminals," he said, his voice carrying genuine, escalating threat now. "I'm formally demanding their immediate return, along with appropriate compensation for the disruption their fabricated allegations have caused."

"I won't be handing over anyone who came to us seeking legitimate protection from documented violence," I said, my own voice hardening despite my attempt at maintaining diplomatic composure. "If you have genuine grievances, formal channels exist for addressing disputes between packs. Threatening violence at our border isn't an acceptable substitute for proper process."

"Formal channels," he sneered, something increasingly unhinged entering his expression. "You think I have time for bureaucratic delay while my former subjects continue spreading lies about legitimate leadership transition?"

Something in his phrasing struck me sharply—*legitimate leadership transition*—understanding suddenly this wasn't simply territorial dispute, but likely genuine, violent coup that Miriam's group had apparently fled, resistance against exactly the kind of unstable, dangerous consolidation of power this man was clearly still pursuing.

"I'm not handing over anyone," I repeated, my voice carrying absolute, unwavering finality. "If you attempt to forcibly cross this border, you'll be treated as hostile aggression against our territory, with whatever consequence that genuinely requires."