Rejected and Pregnant I Fled The Pack novel Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Still, I couldn’t shake a low, persistent unease at the thought of it. If the baby wasn’t Damon’s, and he found out, what would that mean for the pack? For his position, already shaky after everything that had happened with me? I didn’t know enough about pack politics to guess with any real certainty, and I told myself firmly that it wasn’t my problem to solve.

My problem was closer, more immediate. My problem was making sure that whatever came next, Damon didn’t find me before I was ready for him to.

I finished pulling the muffins from the oven, set them to cool on the rack, and made my way to the small office in the back of the diner, pulling out the folder where I kept copies of all my paperwork—the business license, the lease, everything filed under a slightly altered version of my name that I’d used deliberately, hoping it would make tracing me back to my old pack just a little bit harder.

I didn’t know if it would be enough. Alphas had resources most people didn’t, and Damon, according to Reeves, had apparently spent every one of the last several months refusing to give up the search. I thought of my daughter, still shifting occasionally beneath my ribs, and felt a fierce, protective resolve settle over the fear.

If he found me, he found me. I couldn’t control that entirely, not with trackers combing through counties on his orders. But I could control what happened after. I could make sure that whatever claim he thought he had-as father, as alpha, as former mate-he understood clearly that it didn’t extend to controlling either of our lives simply because he’d finally decided, months too late, that he regretted what he’d thrown away.

I sat at the small desk, one hand resting against my belly, and typed out a careful reply to

Reeves.

*Thank you for telling me. Please don’t tell anyone elsewhere I am. If Damon asks you directly, I need you to say you don’t know.*

His response came quickly. *Of course. I just wanted you to be prepared. He’s not giving up, Evelyn. I don’t think he’s going to.*

I read that message twice, feeling the weight of it settle into my chest.

*I don’t think he’s going to.*

I set the phone down and pressed both hands against my stomach, feeling my daughter’s small movements beneath my palms, that same fierce protectiveness rising up again, stronger this time.

“Whatever happens,” I whispered into the quiet of the office, “I’m going to make sure you have a life that’s actually yours. Not a legacy. Not an inheritance he expects to claim. Just yours.

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Outside, I could hear the muffled sounds of the diner’s evening rush starting to pick up, Josie’s voice calling out an order, the familiar clatter of dishes and conversation that had become the soundtrack of the life I’d built here. Istood slowly, smoothing my apron over the curve of my stomach, and made myself walk back out into it, back into the life that was mine, refusing to let fear steal one more moment of it from me than it already had.

But that night, long after the diner had closed and Josie had gone home and I’d finally collapsed into bed, exhausted in the particular way that came from carrying both a child and a constant, low-grade fear, I lay awake staring at the ceiling for a long time.

*He’s not giving up. I don’t think he’s going to.*

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