Witch's Marsh going on tilt

She did not follow, pleading with him to stay, and at once he returned to her and embraced her, chest to chest with his head across her shoulders as he brushed his nose through her fur. "I'm not going to leave you," he murmured.

Had he been in the right state of mind he would have known how wrong this was, to undermine the maplewood's alpha male like this, to trust that someone who was not ready to leave with him now would come back later. But the white wolf was willing to believe, for he had committed to the fantasy in his head, and could think of no other trail for him to walk. This was it for him.

He knew he would not be returning to the hollow; he could neither face what he had done nor look upon a wolf who had rejected him. He knew also he could not seek out his lover from the plateau, for he could not bear to see Lasher with his family, at the helm of his own pack, when he felt he had nothing to his name. He could not be a side dish to the dark wolf any more, and no more could he serve as a subordinate. His need for control was too great, his fear of further rejection too real.  

The traumatized mind was a strange thing. It made mountains of molehills, and created problems where problems did not exist. It made a mess out of emotions, and forbade rational thought to take up residence in his head. Shardul would likely never know how much harm he had actually done the wolf. Far more than his claws alone could have managed. Luke's was a weak spirit and it had splintered irreparably.  

"As long as you promise you won't leave me," he uttered softly, tightening his embrace and pressing his nose more firmly against her. "Promise me you'll come back. Promise me that I won't wait forever."