"Good." The gentleness is back, Miles reaching to take their hand, to set his other at their back to help them stand, help offset the weight of the baby. He guides them forward, to step down from the back of the wagon, squeezing their hand gently and murmuring, "Careful, there you go. Don't trip. Wouldn't want an accident, would we?" There's a bit of a cruel smile on Miles's face as he says it, suggestion he may not mind that at all. But he needs to be strategic -- having been torn away from their pack, the pup is likely the only thing Kurt cares about anymore. Without it, there's no way to ensure their compliance.

As if testing just that, Miles reaches one big, deadly hand -- the one still smeared with Kurt's blood -- and rests it on their belly, fingers spread wide, possessive. "How far along are you?" he asks, quirking an eyebrow up. Corrigan's child is useful in their own way, but Miles doesn't want to live on the run forever. He wants his pack, his territory, his home back, and it's going to take him knocking Kurt up to do it. And he doesn't enjoy waiting any longer than he needs to.

Case in point -- the hand resting so supportively at Kurt's back has slid down, smoothing over the shape of their ass beneath the baggy, ill-fitting dress, squeezing with that same possessive, punishing grip. He doesn't intend on abstaining from his long-denied pack privileges while in hiding. In fact, he's going to have a lot of free time, and will need a lot of distraction...