Rejected and Pregnant I Fled The Pack novel Chapter 97

Chapter 97

Damon pov

I found my father sitting up in bed when I arrived at the medical wing that afternoon, color returned properly to his face now, several days into recovery, and my mother beside him, carefully arranging his blanket with the same tender, practiced care I remembered from childhood, back before everything between them had grown so complicated and distant.

He looked happy. Genuinely, unguardedly happy in a way I couldn’t remember seeing from him in years, watching her fuss over him with obvious, easy affection despite everything still unresolved between

them.

“You’re spoiling him,” I said, announcing my presence as I stepped fully into the room. “He’s going to expect this kind of treatment permanently now.”

My mother laughed softly, straightening from adjusting the blanket. “Someone has to make sure he’s actually resting properly instead of trying to sneak out to handle pack business before he’s cleared for it.”

“I wasn’t trying to sneak out,” my father protested, though something warm and teasing lingered beneath the mild indignation.

“You absolutely were,” she said, fond exasperation evident in her tone. “I caught you halfway to the door yesterday, fully dressed, insisting you just needed to ‘check on one small thing.””

I settled into the chair near the window, watching the easy, familiar rhythm between them, something that felt both comfortingly nostalgic and quietly complicated given everything that had happened these past several months.

My mother stayed another twenty minutes or so, the conversation drifting between practical updates about Hazel, gentle teasing about my father’s reluctant patience with recovery, small ordinary details that felt, despite everything, genuinely warm rather than strained or performed.

“I should get back,” she said eventually, gathering her things. “The nannies have Hazel for the afternoon, but I promised I’d relieve them before evening.”

“Thank you for coming,” my father said quietly, something soft and grateful in his voice. “For all of it, these past few days.”

“Of course,” she said simply, leaning down to press a brief, gentle kiss to his forehead before straightening. “Rest properly. I’ll come by again tomorrow.”

She left, and I watched my father’s gaze follow her all the way to the door, something wistful and quietly aching visible in his expression even as he attempted to maintain his usual composure.

The moment the door closed behind her, something in him seemed to collapse slightly, his careful composure giving way to something rawer, more vulnerable than I’d witnessed from him even during the genuine crisis of the surgery itself.

His eyes filled with tears, and he pressed a hand briefly against his face, genuine sorrow evident in the

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gesture.

“Dad?” I moved closer, concerned by the sudden shift. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t believe I lost such a wonderful mate,” he whispered, voice thick with tears he was clearly struggling to hold back. “Thirty years, and I never once appreciated what I actually had until it was already gone. Watching her here, taking care of me despite everything, despite the separation papers she filed, despite thirty years of me failing to give her even a fraction of the consideration she’s showing me now-” He stopped, pressing his hand harder against his eyes, genuine grief evident in every line of his weakened body.

I sat with him quietly, uncertain how to respond to this raw, unguarded vulnerability, so different from the calculated authority he’d carried my entire life.

“She deserves better,” he continued, voice breaking further. “Better than thirty years of watching me prioritize control and tradition over actually seeing her, actually valuing what she brought to our life together. I’ve spent decades treating her presence as simply expected, as background to whatever I considered actually important, and now, watching her show me this kind of genuine care despite everything, I understand exactly how much I squandered.”

“You’re not wrong,” I said carefully, unwilling to offer false comfort that dismissed the genuine weight of what he was actually confronting. “But recognizing it now, genuinely reckoning with it, that has to count for something, doesn’t it? Even if it’s decades later than it should have happened.”

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