Coward, the voice in his head whispered. Running away again, always running away from the conflict, never man enough to stand your ground. Slay struggled to keep his expression impassive, muster up the same blank mask his mate had perfected out of necessity. The truth was ugly. Slay was no fool, he had guessed most of it already - that filthy black she-devil always skulking about, shadowing his snow-white queen, of course she was an extension of Haku Soul. Of course Cercelee would never willingly relinquish the pack she had created to the madman who had always threatened to pull it apart. Her control had been shaky ever since Cwmfen had left them. But...

The wolf felt his heartbeat fluttering with anticipation, an electricity tingling throughout his broad frame. What attachment did he have to this land? He had grown to care for it, sure, grown accustomed to their relaxed standard of living... But to wander again, to shed these chains, to be free... It was so tempting. He had always daydreamed of eloping, so to speak - whisking his mate away from the dreary monotony of responsibility, sleeping beneath the stars again and living day by day as he had in his rebellious, hedonistic youth. It was not all romantic, to be sure - there would be seasons when they would struggle against starvation, be driven away by larger predators, or suffer through storms and droughts without shelter or stability. Slay could care less, though. They were a stubborn, tenacious couple. She would see how his resolve would strengthen over time, and be amazed by how reliable a mate he could be when he wasn't stressed over his rank.

She might slink away in shame, and he would fight to the death to defend her honor and preserve her Sadira pride, but - secretly, he wanted this, he wanted to give her a taste of true freedom. Their litter would be born any day now, and by his calculations, were already overdue; let their beloved children see the world as nomads, believing their parents had been lone wolves all along. It was already a huge weight from his shoulders. He didn't fear parenthood any longer, not when he didn't have to force himself to fit in with the pack and follow their regulations. That life just did not suit him, and he chafed under the bureaucracy. He just hoped that Cercelee would adjust to their new way of life, that she did not crave order the way he craved the unknown. She would be an excellent mother, he had always known that. She was years younger than him, and yet in many ways, far more mature. Somehow they achieved balance.

A strange mixture of pride and protectiveness welled in his chest as he watched Cer move ahead of him, her gait unsteady but determined. Slay wanted her to be safe. He wanted this to work. He felt tremors of anticipation wracking his form, his ice-pale gaze riveted on the church doors. If Lillith so much as poked her nose out, he was poised to crush her windpipe, preventing her from ever sounding the alarm. But she did not emerge. The spy was either oblivious to their escape, or had decided the fleeing traitors were no longer her problem. After Slay could no longer hear his mate's ungainly retreat, he backed away from the home he was abandoning, whirling to lope along the scent trail after his pregnant love. He would catch up quickly. She could only waddle so far without him finding her again, his precious, his dovely. It wasn't cowardice that moved them. It was simply love. Love for their unborn pups, and love for each other, a bond that had outlasted Dahlia de Mai's perfumed sanctuary after all.