Disclaimer: I do not own the characters, character names, nor anything pertaining to the X-Men universe. I profit in no way. Places are made up. Events and setting inspired by the book A Companion to Wolves written by Sarah Monette and Elizabeth Bear, and also my own fanfiction Wolves.

Warnings: Mpreg, M/M

Author's Note: Here's the next little bit. Please take the time to leave a small comment. It makes me smile. Happy reading!

Chapter Two

It was nearly dark when they returned to their village and the Wolff Heallen beyond. His Shieldmates went to their family homes in the village to change their filthy clothes. If they all entered the Heall looking like they'd rolled in mud everyone would know where they'd been. They were reluctant to leave him, but it appeared no one had noticed their absence and Charles waved them off with a smile. When he entered the Wolff Heallen he was hit all at once by the loud ruckus, and delicious aroma of supper time. The Heallen was mostly one large hall with long, solid wooden tables and benches room enough for the entire pack and more to eat all at once. Three large hearths were centered in three of the walls, all of them roaring with life. Torches and braziers lit the hall fully. Charles could see nearly the entire pack was present, gathered for dinner. The servers were busy, hurrying to bring the food out of the kitchens to the tables. They were all younger pups who were not of age to mate yet, aside from Moira.

They helped Kayla Silverfox, the lead cook of their pack, to prepare and serve each meal. In a pack everyone worked, everyone had a place. Charles remembered those days well. They weren't so very long ago. Every pup when they were not busy training did their fair share of work in the kitchens before they earned their place as a warrior. It was not required to become a fighter, however, everyone knew that survival was better if each pup were prepared. Charles smiled at one of the servers in particular as she passed. Some wolves, like Moira, did not have the stomach for battle. He certainly didn't feel it made her weak in any way, but not all felt as he did. She didn't let it bother her, though. She threw all she had into every task—took pride in her work. It was one of the things Charles admired about her. If he were not the Alpha's son he would have been content working in the kitchens or the fields for the rest of his days as Moira would do. The only thing that stopped him from wishing that too strongly was that he would have missed out on the bond he shared with his Shield brothers and he wouldn't give that up for anything.

From a young age he and Moira had been friends, inseparable. They thought for certain they would bond in the same group when the time came. But when Charles bonded with Sean, Alex, and his sister Raven, Moira never bonded with any Shield brothers of her own. It happened sometimes. It was a sign that battle was never meant to be a suitable place for them. Charles was surprised that fate chose him to bond and not Moira. If any wolf did not have a liking for killing, it was Charles, nor did any feel more out of place on the battlefield, in the training yard. That is not to say he lacked skill. The sword was at home in his hand. His wolf's fangs have tasted their share of blood, both human and troll. Charles had earned his warrior stripes after all.

At a young age he saved himself and his mother from a trellwitch. The black bands of the warrior were tattooed into the flesh of his left bicep that very night by his own father—his blade still steaming in the winter air with the trellwitch's black blood. Charles had been working beside his mother in the far fields gathering the last of the ripe wild berries that grew along the edges of their crops to the west. The sun was dangerously low. Cold and darkness were overtaking the land. They should have gone back with the other workers hours ago, but his mother insisted that she would not leave until they were done. Charles worked fast trying to get them out of there as quickly as possible; knowing no amount of talk or persuasion would budge the stubbornness of his mother.

The troll had come from underground practically under their feet, but it must have misjudged their exact location. Trellwitch's could mold the very stone of the earth, building tunnels and traps underneath the surface hidden from the most trained eye. When the ground slid away near their feet his mother lost her footing in her surprise nearly falling. In desperation Charles lunged managing to grasp his mother's flailing hand and pulled her to safety. All wolves knew that if you fell into a trellwarren there was no coming back out. Angered that its easy meal was denied, the black hulking beast crawled to the surface. Charles screamed at his mother to run and not look back. She didn't listen, she never listened. When the trellwitch lunged for the she-wolf Charles pulled his training sword from his belt and hacked off the clawed hand reaching for his mother. The screeching bellow hurt his ears, and made his very core shake and tremble with fear as the trellwitch turned on him. It towered over him dripping pale, milky saliva that melted the layers of frost on the ground wherever it landed. When that great maw opened with a roar Charles thrust up with all his might sending the sword up through the trellwitch's jaw and out the back of its skull. Acidic saliva splashed over his hands burning them. He yanked the sword out and then with one swing cut the head from the bulky shoulders. The head rolled at his feet facing up. Black eyes glistened in the fading light seeming to stare at him, hating him.

They'd been lucky. Lucky that the troll had misjudged—a mistake rarely, almost never made. Lucky there had been only one. The fight had not gone unnoticed. Soon he was surrounded by his pack as they sniffed out the area for any other danger and tended to his mother. His father hoisted him up on his shoulders bellowing and boasting his pride in his uke son. His son the witch-cleaver. Charles hated the name immediately. But he allowed his father to parade him around, and sat silently through the tattoo branding. It wasn't until hours later that anyone noticed or cared that his hands had been severely burned. By then no amount of tending could keep away the scarring. He was only thirteen. The youngest in all their history to kill a full-grown troll single-handedly. It brought great honor to his father, but Charles never felt more than simple relief that he and his mother had not been killed.

Charles looked down at his hands as he walked along the edge of the Heallen hoping to avoid anyone's attention until he could slip upstairs and change his clothes. The entire surface of his hands had burned but thankfully the only places that scarred were the areas the troll's saliva had hit his flesh directly. His father told him they were a warrior's pride. Proof that when death came knocking he'd survived. Charles would never say he regretted having the knowledge he'd needed to save his mother and defend himself. He'd really just rather that death did not come knocking again. Ever.

Charles hurried toward the stairs away from the Heall and the pack. No one called out to him so he was certain he could make it without being seen by anyone but Moira, and she wouldn't tell anyone. He entered a long, wide hall lined with storage areas to his left and to his right were the communal baths. Just as he was passing the curtained entryway a large, meaty hand shot out, gripped him by the nape of his neck and hauled him into the steamy baths. A startled cry escaped his lips and another hand clapped over his mouth as he was slammed up against a wall. Charles clenched his eyes closed trying to calm his fear. He knew the scent of this wolf all too well, he didn't need to see him or the cruel light in his dark eyes.

The man was nearly the size of a troll and he used all his heavy bulking mass to press the much smaller uke tightly into the wall. Charles could hardly breathe with the hand over his mouth and the weight compressing his lungs. His breathing through his nose grew short and desperate. He couldn't help the small whimpering sound that filled his throat.

"Oh, Charles, Charles," the deep voice sweetly mocked. Charles could hear the satisfied smile in those words. He clenched his eyes even tighter when one large hand pressed to his chest and rubbed its slow, sensual path down his body. Charles' breath hitched sharply when that hated hand rubbed over his groin. He could hear the other man sniffing him, scenting him, felt his nose brush the side of his throat where Charles' scent was strongest. Aside from the fact that he was practically suffocating, and being held and molested against his will, it was a mockery of a lover's touch. That's what frightened Charles the most. This wolf believed he had every right to lay claim on him, as if Charles was his already and the mating challenge was merely one last inconvenience. These little hidden moments had been going on since he was fifteen, but Charles had no idea how to make them stop. All the dominant wolves had their eyes on him, certainly. Many of them flirted with him, and on more than one occasion some had touched him or come onto him strongly. But always there was someone else around to pull them off of him, or their attentions were harmless enough that Charles could send a smile their way and all were content. But this wolf always caught him by surprise. Always seemed to know when Charles would be completely alone, or when and where he'd be most vulnerable.

"Come on, Charles, let me see those pretty blues of yours," the deep voice soothed. Charles refused. He couldn't look at him. He couldn't stand to see the lust, the arrogance in the other man's eyes. Most of all he couldn't bear to see the deep-seated cruelty that had been there since they were children. But the other man did not take refusal well. The large hand rubbing gently against his groin gripped him harshly and squeezed. Charles' scream was barely audible behind his tormentor's hand. "Open your fucking eyes, Charles." The man's voice dropped the act of any kind affection and became instantly dangerous—hate-filled—the words punctuated with another harsh squeeze.

Reluctantly Charles gave in. He slowly peeked his eyes open but he stared straight ahead into the man's broad chest. He couldn't bring himself to meet the other's gaze and prayed that he didn't demand it.

"That's right, lovely," the deep voice was soothing again; satisfied by his submission. The cruel hand released its painful hold. "Now," a thick finger trailed down his cheek, "you've been off to places you shouldn't. You ought to know better than that, little brother. Bad things happen to ukes when they disobey the laws laid down by their betters." Charles really didn't like the way he said that. The large man chuckled. "I should—"

"Cain," a voice barked from the doorway. Relief soared through Charles' chest as Cain instantly released him and turned to face the newcomer. Logan stood there, a scowl on his rugged face and a hand on the hilt of one of his blades. Charles could have kissed Logan right then. Cain laughed deeply, a threatening sound in Charles' opinion, as he strode out of the baths. As he passed one large hand shot out and hit Logan square in the chest knocking him back several feet. It was witnessing such effortless strength like that that caused Charles to despair that anyone would be able to defeat his step-brother.

When Cain was gone, Logan turned to him. "Are you all right, kid?"

Logan was the only one who still called him that. He used to hate it because once he'd earned his warrior stripes he was considered an adult and it was an insult. But eventually he'd come to realize Logan did not mean it that way.

"Kid, did he hurt you?"

Charles startled. When did Logan get so close? Charles glanced up at him. His whole body was shaking now, but he managed a quick nod.

"All right," Logan said, gruffly. "Get up stairs and get cleaned up. Your father expects you at his side for dinner."

Charles nodded again. He turned to get to his room as quickly as possible, but at the doorway he stopped. "Thank you, Logan," he said quietly—it was all he could manage.

"Get out of here," Logan growled. "Thank me by being on time for supper."

Charles smiled. Logan was a mean bastard, but he was also one of the biggest softies when it came to dealing with females and ukes.

Once Charles was gone Logan headed back to the Heall. He made certain Cain was there and not upstairs attempting to catch Charles alone again. Logan had seen Charles walk in—watched him head for the stairs and get dragged into the baths. He didn't like what was happening to the Alpha's son. What their Alpha did was not uncommon. Offering up a uke son or daughter in a mating for the position of Alpha was a relatively peaceful solution for a succession over the pack. Wolves could die in the battle for the offering, they were violent after all, but they were more about proving one's strength and therefore their right to command obedience. Battles where Alpha's were challenged directly were bloodbaths because they were never just between the Alpha and the challenger. Those loyal to the Alpha and those backing the challenger inevitably got involved. They were tragedies. Many lives were always lost in that madness, and often times, innocent lives.

But that didn't make what was going to happen to Charles any less of a tragedy. Logan looked down the long table and met Cain's eyes. The large wolf grinned. Logan seethed. He hated the man. He knew of his cruelty—knew how much Cain despised his step-brother and had made it his personal vendetta to make certain Charles suffered. Logan did not want to think about what would become of the sweet uke when—if, he amended, not wanting to seal Charles' fate—Cain won him for a mate.

Logan glared at the man long after Cain lost interest in their staring match. Gods help them all if Cain became Alpha.

tbc... please take a moment to leave a comment.