Despite his animosity toward you Sam is a better man than any you've ever come across before. You believe his words, you trust with all your heart that he would protect you if the situation arose.

He deserves the truth.

"My father, King Henry, died last year." You look down to your lap, wringing your hands together.

"We heard news of his passing." Sam confirms softly, watching intently as your facade drops and is replaced by real, raw emotion that spreads from your eyes to your mouth. This is the authentic you, without the dressings of pomp and circumstance, the you he knew was in there if only he would get it, and Sam recognizes it when he sees it.

"As the line of succession dictates my oldest brother, William, assumed the throne." You continue.

"The one they call the Mad King?" Sam's eyes narrow. Perhaps beyond reason he's looking for an excuse to believe in you. "Did he not treat you well?"

You take a pregnant breath, tipping your head back. Just get it over with. "When we were children William and I were close, very close. It's a bond that only grew as we aged. Perhaps he was always a bit of a dandy but I loved him for it. The two of us had an appreciation for the finer things our life affords; the cuisine and modern fashions. Certainly more than any of my other siblings."

Sam is silent, his arm crossed over his chest.

"It was around the time my father fell ill that I noticed a change in his behavior. I found William talking to himself in his bedchambers one afternoon, but his symptoms would come and go. I should have told my father before he died, perhaps he could have done something, ensured my brother Daniel assumed the throne instead...but I said nothing. I feared embarrassing William in front of our parents, they already thought him weak and I didn't want to exacerbate the situation."

"I wouldn't know until much later what was happening to him, and by then it was too late. You have to understand Sam, I always knew that William had a proclivity for...men. I found him in the stables with a serf when I was twelve and it'd been our secret. He'd had a lover for many years, an older man named Anton who slowly went insane. As fate would have it Anton passed away just before my father. I thought maybe it was William's grief rearing it's hard after losing the person he cared for most, but not permitted to openly grieve. Then our father went...he and Anton died within a week, so close together. It wasn't until after William's coronation that I saw the rash on his hands, then the ulcers."

"Syphilis?" Sam asks calmly.

"Yes," you nod. "His behaviour became increasingly erratic, he started to have these delusions of paranoia. He came to believe that there was a secret society of people trying to infiltrate our family, assassins who would stop at nothing to see us all dead. When it was time for him marry and declare a queen he refused every woman in the kingdom. He said he couldn't trust anyone outside of the family. So he chose our sister Elizabeth. He married our sister and then he ordered me to do the same...to marry our brother, Philip. I pleaded with him but he would hear none of it."

Sam's heart drops. He's pictured you as a spoiled woman running away from a privileged life, perhaps an arranged marriage but nothing like this.

"When I refused William saw me a conspirator. I no longer had free will, I was given an order from the King on pain of death. I'd be expected to consummate a marriage with…" You stop swallowing tears. "I would not lie with my brother, so I had no other choice but to leave or be killed."

"You should have told me," Sam runs a hand over his face. "We could have taken precautions. I certainly wouldn't have paraded you around the village."

"I think, perhaps, I am still trying to protect William. And I'm scared and desperate and utterly humiliated. And now I am alone." You feel sick, as if the contents of your stomach might find themselves on the ground in front of you.

"No," Snapping to attention, Sam grabs your shoulder, turning you toward him. "You're not alone."

There's a soft affection in his eyes that you haven't noticed before. His face is close to yours and you wonder how you've failed to appreciate how handsome he is.

"I should have moved on as soon as I was healthy enough to travel. I've brought this trouble upon you and you asked for none of it. If I'm honest, I'd say that I don't know what to do. When the thieves killed my companions they took everything from me, I've nothing left and nowhere to go."

"You don't have to go anywhere." Sam rubs his hands together. "You're welcome to stay here as long as you like."

"If I stay it will make you a compatriot." You protest.

"Let that be my concern." His brow narrows like a father prying truth for a child. "Have you told me everything?"

"Yes."

"Then you're welcome here. However," He stands up, looking out at the fields and he shoves his hands into his pockets. "You'll have to tell me when your heat comes. I'll need warning."

"That won't be an issue…" You close your eyes at the humiliation of having to explain yourself. "I know you think very little of my husband and the kind of man he was. That the thought of him is amusing to you but I loved him very much. He was a good man and when he died a part of me did too. Something happened to me, I don't know what but I don't...I haven't had a heat in years."

You expect some sliver of a witty repartee, at least a snide comment about Omegas and your lack of any useful skill, but he doesn't comment.

Sam simply nods and offers you his hand.

You take it, sliding your palm over his warm, rough skin. There's a tingle in your chest, something faint and low. If you weren't so broken you might have a stronger response to the touch of an Alpha, but this is...something.

The fact that Sam's brother is also an Alpha is an inescapable fact. His scent is lighter, perhaps a bit sweeter than Sam's, but not at all pleasing to the senses. Maybe he's coming off rut or perhaps his smell is always this strong, all you know is that it makes your stomach turn as the three of you sit down for supper.

"You seem on edge." Sam leans toward you, lifting his chin in your direction.

"I'm perfectly fine." You brush him off, laddleing stew in a bowl.

Dean pulls his chair closer to the table, dipping a spoon into the concoction and letting it drip back into the bowl. His eyes shift from Sam to you. "What is this?"

"Pottage," you grimace, looking at him as if he's a lunatic. What else could it possibly be? "Is there something wrong?"

You spent all afternoon cutting vegetables and adding spices, sweating over the hearth like a common scullery maid. You stink of lard and cooked meat and you most definitely don't appreciate his apprehension.

"No," Dean raises his forehead and pouts his lower lip. "It just looks bit...runny."

"I'm sure it's wonderful," Sam nods, shoveling a spoonful into his mouth. You watch expectantly as his features tense and he grunts, then starts to slowly chew. He crunches his way through a carrot that should be soft.

Dean sniffs at his helping before digging in and his reaction is far less polite. He spits it back into the bowl as you look on in horror. "I'm sorry," he raises his hands palms up. "But I can't even pretend. It tastes like a salt lick."

Sam shouts, putting his fingers to his mouth and pulling away with a small piece of bone. "I may have just cracked a tooth."

You sit back in your chair, defeated. You'd be offended if you had an ounce of energy left, but you're exhausted. It hasn't helped that Dean's scent is the only thing you can concentrate on. You can still distinguish Sam's Alpha in the mix, but it takes concentration.

The version of yourself that first arrived here would be indigent at their reactions, after all you have tried your best. But you are decidedly not the same woman so you give up pretense and burst into stomach aching laughter that makes your eyes water. Sam grins and Dean laughs along with you, until you're waving your hand in front of your face. "I told Samuel I couldn't cook to save my life, but he insisted."

"I won't make the same mistake twice." Sam smiles.

After a more appetizing dinner of bread, cured meat and too much wine, Dean finally leaves and you can breath again.

"You hardly touched your food." Sam comments.

"I don't have much of an appetite."

"Are you feeling ill?"

"I do have a bit of a weak stomach this evening. I like your brother, and his stories, very much; but he stinks. I'm glad he's taken his leave, I was ready to go to the barn for the remainder of evening."

Sam knows leaps and bounds more about the dynamics of Alphas and Omegas than you, comparatively his knowledge could fill books while you would struggle to write a sonnet. So, he knows that claimed and bonded Omegas are especially sensitive to the scent of other Alphas. His mother could never stand the smell of any Alpha other than his father, it set her on edge and made her stomach turn.

He stinks.

Sam chalks it up to the fact that you've been living in his house. All this time around each other is not natural and it's bound to have unintended effects.

Yes, that has to be it.

Time passes quickly as months turn into seasons. Spring turns into a warm summer that inevitably fades to Fall. If you had to account for your time you'd be hard pressed to explain where the days escape to. You and Sam find a rhythm that's tolerable, but often contentious.

It's still in the early hours of the morning, the sun barely cresting over the horizon as he hands you the list.

"It's one task, but it's important. You must get everything in the proportions listed and boil them according to the instructions. It needs to be exact. Do you understand?" Sam implores.

"Yes." stifling a yawn you place the back of a hand to your lips.

"I'll be back just after dark. Have it ready by then." Sam leans down, insisting your full attention. "Are you certain you can handle this?"

"Samuel," you pick a small bite of the bread form the loaf and pop it into your mouth. "Do you have no faith in me at all? It's a one trip to the village, I am not a child."

"That is still up for debate." He grumbles. He's been in a absolutely rancid mood for the last several days.

"I won't let you down." Dropping a sprig of pine needle into a mug of hot water you don't even look up as he leaves.

Perhaps if you hadn't gone back to bed all of this could have been avoided. What's the saying? You can take the princess out of the castle, but not the castle from the princess. You've never been an early riser and you don't see the harm in crawling back into bed for just a short while.

When you do awake it's midday and there's still plenty of time to make the walk to the herbalist. You assume this concoction he's requested is for his back, you've suspected he's been in pain for several days. Not only had his attitude soured more than normal but he's been twitchy and marginally more aggressive.

You dress, gathering a sack and his all important list, ready to begin your journey. You set up off toward the village at a brisk pace, humming to yourself when you see one of the chickens along the side of the path. The bird is farther from the house than she should be. After several failed attempts you lift her into your arms and walk her back to the coop.

When you open the door to the pen four others dart out, squawking and trotting free around the yard. The afternoon devolves quickly into early evening as you battle chickens and then, by a unfathomable twist of circumstance, the dairy cow that liberates herself from the field.

By the time the animals are secured, the sun is setting and you failed to accomplish the lone task Sam gave you.

You smell him before he's inside. You're on your knees stoking the fire when the familiar but unnervingly intense aroma comes to your attention. It's easy to place as Sam's scent, you know it well, but this is stronger than it should be.

The small door flies open with a bang, hitting the wall with enough force to shake the structure. You pop to your feet as Sam stalks inside. He's sweating, his mouth twisted in discomfort when he looks at you.

It's his rut.

How could you have not known this was coming? He's been showing signs for days and you just ignored them, blissfully unaware of his impending cycle.

"Where is it?" He grits. His eyes flutter shut, teeth sinking over his lip as he scents the air, head tilting from one side to the other. The drink he wanted was for this, a herbal suppression to keep his instincts at bay.

Horrified you step back and admit, "I didn't...a lot of things happened today and I didn't have the chance-"

"Run," he utters, his expression numbing, visibly struggling to restrain himself. Inching away from the door his eyes go wide and his lip curls. "Run, now."

"Samuel," you hesitate as the meaning of his words sink in. Panic surges from your head to your legs and you pick up your skirts and dash into the night.

You make it halfway to the stable before two great hands are around your waist, hoisting you into the air and over his shoulder. Sam plucks you off the ground like a sack of grain and stalks toward the open door of the barn.

"Put me down!" You shout, hammering your fists at his back.

And he does, he drops you unceremoniously onto the hay covered floor and pounces on top of you.

"Samuel, please don't." You hit his chest, small hands trying to push him off, but resistance is futile. His large stature affords him easy restraint as you buck under the weight of him. Your flailing legs, kicking wildly, are hampered as he wedge his hips between your thighs.

"Stop squirming," he snarls, hooking a hand under your knee to bend your leg, letting the heft of his body hold you to the ground. His hand ventures under dress, one big rough hand grabbing at the bare skin of your legs all the while pressing his face into your neck, drawing in a deep breath, before dragging his nose and open mouth across the swell of your breasts.

"Please don't do this," tears fall from the corners of your eyes.

"I said stop moving." He smacks the side of your face with an open hand, strong enough to make a sickening crack. Sam's eyes are blown wide, crazed by the swell of all consuming lust. This is not the man who opened his home to you, this is someone foreign and terrifying. He reaches up, pinning both arms above your head with one hand as the other ventures between your thighs.

His fingers poke at the lips of your sex and you screw your eyes shut, turning your head to side. Without the slightest hesitation he shoves his middle and index finger inside your pussy, pushing until he's knuckle deep.

You should be wet for him. It doesn't matter that you're not a willing partner, any normal Omega should respond to his rut by making you ripe and ready, but instead he forces two long fingers into your bone dry snatch and you yelp in pain. If he fucks you like this he'll tear you open, a realization that makes you fight even harder.

"You're hurting me," you scream, a sob tearing from your throat.

"You'll slick up once I have my cock in you." He snears, reaching for his trousers.

There's a hollow popping sound as a large piece of firewood connects with Sam's head. His eyes roll back and he collapses, the weight of him knocking the air from your chest.

Dean's face is above you.

He rolls Sam's limp body off you with a grunt, looking from you to his brother. "I told him it wasn't a good idea to stay here with you. He wouldn't listen."

You scramble backward, straightening your skirt, wiping tears from your face. Sam's laid out flat on his back, his mouth open like a fish gulping for air. He makes a faint sound, a pained groan as his head falls to the side.

"Is he hurt?" On hands and knees you crawl to Sam, putting a hand on his forehead. You inspect him, running fingers through his hair until you find the growing bump at the base of his skull.

"I didn't hit him that hard." Dean leans down giving his brother a once over.

"This was my fault." You confess, smoothing hair away from his face. "If I had just done what he asked none of this would have happened."

Dean tilts his head toward you. "He never drank the tincture?"

"I didn't know what if was for, he didn't tell me...I didn't have it ready"

"I wasn't even entirely convinced it would work, especially with an Omega living in his house. You two are playing with fire. If he took you, like this…" Dean shakes his head at you with disgust. "He'd never forgive himself."

"I know," you're defeated. You sit back onto the filthy floor of the barn. "I've never seen anything like that before. He wasn't Samuel, the way he was looking at me..."

"A rut's enough to make any Alpha react like that, but he's had you around...it's not a smart situation for either of you."

"Should we take him inside?" You propose.

"You're going inside and I'm taking Sam with me. It'll pass in a couple of days."

It's almost a week before he returns.

Dean comes every morning and evening, tending to his livestock and handling a growing list of common tasks that you have no pension for. Had someone told you six months prior that you'd be living in a rickety cottage, pining away for a forrester, you'd have told them the very idea was preposterous. But you do miss Sam, more than you care to admit.

Sam returns just before dusk, the sun is hanging low over the horizon. There's a tapping on the door, Sam knocking at the door of his own home before slowly coming inside.

You stand next to the table, hands clasped in front of you, strangely formal for such a moment. You almost forgot how large he is until he's standing in the same room again, looming over you like a sad, regretful giant.

He clears his throat before addressing you. "I'm sorry, for anything I did. I can't remember much but Dean said he thinks I might have...hurt you."

"No," you reply quickly, taking a step toward him. If he doesn't remember then you're not about to make him relive it. "I will admit I was bit scared but no damage was done." You worry your tone is too upbeat, inappropriate for the setting but you're just unbearably happy to see him. "I think we both did a few things that we regret...or in my case lack thereof, but I was hoping that maybe we could forgo the apologies and unpleasantness and try to return to what we were. I don't think we need to speak of it."

"I'd like that as well," he smiles tightly.

And it's never spoken of again.

"Let's see it then." Sam holds out his hand.

You don't even want to show him. Sam never misses an opportunity to mention that your elite education has no practical application. He'd gone on and on about finding a skill, anything to make yourself useful, so you recruited Martha to help you. After talking over the options you decided candle making was a good place to start, it didn't appear difficult.

Sam slows his pace, taking the beeswax from you and examining it. He turns it upside down and rightside up as his brow furrows. "What is it?"

"You are not serious?" You're taken aback by his question. He shakes head and looks back to the mystery object. You stop in your tracks, folding your arms over your chest. "It's a candle!"

He looks skeptically from you to the candle, then back again. "This is a candle? Surely there's there some kind of mold that one puts the wax into to provide more of a shape."

"Well," you concede, "There was a mold but I applied too much heat and removed it before it set correctly." Sam just stares at you, his face deadpan, and then breaks out into a full body laugh. His shoulders shake and his chest heaves, apparent delight that racks his entire body. "It's not that funny," you correct him as your goodnature fades. At least you tried, shouldn't he focus on that?

"Oh Princess, it is that funny." He's laughing so hard that a tear leaks from his eyes and he wipes from his face with his sleeve. "You can't pour wax into a mold."

"It is more complicated than it looks, Samuel, I can assure you," your indignant tones just amused him all the more and he bends over with his hands on knees.

He's told you not to touch the mighty sword that hangs above the hearth. He mentioned it only one time, commenting that it was his late father's blade and it's not to be tinkered with, but you want to do something for him. Something special.

You start the day with energized determination, for once you're going to be the one who has something to offer, a gift. It's been weeks since his return and you're ready to pitch in and help. Sam's been a more than generous host, managing to take care of your needs as well as those of his livestock and business.

When you were a girl you pictured your father as the ideal of what a man should be. He was an intellectual who spent his days meeting with advisors and surrounded himself with men much more intelligent than himself. He knew one man was simply not capable of understanding the nuances of running a kingdom, so he asked for help when he needed it. He was a kind, fair king and a balanced leader. You thought of this as work, hard work, and to some degree it was.

But the truth is Sam works harder than anyone you've ever known. He rises before dawn, tending to the cow and the horses. He feeds the pigs, spreads meal for the chickens and lugs mounds of hay from the barn to the stable. And when he's done and the sun is up he eats his breakfast, heads off to the woods where he cuts and chops and hauls lumber until the twilight hours.

You don't expect him home so soon, the sun has just set and you assume you'll have more to finish the task at hand: polishing his father's sword. You're nearly finished, wiping down the blade when he returns unexpectedly.

He's normally sullen in the evenings, tired from a long day, but tonight he comes through the door with a smile in his face. In his left hand he has a small sack filled with Bilberries, they're your favorite. His pleasant disposition fades as his eyes look from you the sword laid over the table.

"What are you doing?" The moment you see his face you know this was a mistake.

"I was just...I wanted to do something for you. You've done so much for me and…"

"Put it down." His jaw ticks and he closes his eyes for a moment. He's been mad before but this is a fury that's new, it's a quiet anger which makes it all the more terrifying.

You set the blade down on the table, smoothing the cloth in your hands before putting in on the table too. "I thought-"

"You don't think, that's the whole problem. You're so used to doing whatever you desire without any consequence that you don't stop to consider how your actions affect other people."

"I'm sorry." Don't cry. "The last thing I wanted to do was upset you. I just wanted to-" Don't cry, don't let him see you cry.

"You should leave." He commands, resolute.

"Samuel-" You trying to protest, at least explain yourself but he doesn't give you the opportunity.

"It's my own fault for expecting anything else. You can't help yourself, can you? The very idea of someone below your station telling you 'no' is a challenge to do otherwise. I asked one thing of you. One. Everything else I offered happily, but you're so stubborn that you do whatever pleases you without regard for anyone but yourself. You're nothing more than an Omega without her heat. It's actually perfect." He spits. "You're a princess past her prime who can't clean or fuck. You're useless to me."

His word cut like a knife, taking the air from your chest. No one has spoken to you this way, not even your brothers in midst of some adolescent rage.

"Get your things. If you start walking now you can get to town before dark. Martha will let you stay with her." He sneers.

"Please do not do this!" You shout, balling your fists at your sides. This has gone more wrong than you could have ever envisioned, but the truth is you should have known better, How could you think that touching something that means so much to him would have pleased him? Between the chickens and the tincture you're clearly not in tune with any part of his life.

"Now." He commands coldly. His glare shifts from you to the sword as he stands with hands on his hips.

You scramble to collect what little you have and stuff it into a small sack, hesitating when you pick up the cloak before setting it back down. With shaking hands you tie the rope securing your items and head for the door. With a hand on the frame you pause, without turning back you utter "I'm sorry."

The tears start to the minute the door slams closed behind you. What a mess you've made. Sam is the only person you have left, and now you've managed to alienate him. It was only a matter of time, he's been merely tolerating you since he took you in and instead of nurturing a better relationship you've made things worse at every turn.

Anger and defeat swelling in your chest, you set a brisk pace toward the village. The cold sinks into your bones as you try to move fast, you doubt it's cold enough to freeze to death but it's enough to make the journey miserable.

You should have never come here, never left France in the first place. Your brother was ill and if you'd stayed you might have been able to reason with him, get through to his more reasonable sensibilities. He was sick after all, what kind of sister are you? Abandoning her family when they need her most?

The root catches your foot, twisting your ankle and before you have time to call out you tumble to ground. You land on your knees, with a yelp and promptly fall back onto your backside. Drawing in a sharp breath you lift up your shirt and take stock of your now bloody knees, touching one tenderly and wincing.

You can do this, you tell yourself. Stop acting like a child, pull yourself together and stand up.

But when you try to stand your ankle gives way and you find yourself on the ground again. And you give up. A sob tears from your throat and you cry, defeated, in the dirt.

Sam watches you silently, standing only a few steps behind with his mother's cloak in his hand. You curse softly between howls, rocking back and forth. While you're certainly ridiculous he wonders if he's been harder on you than was necessary. You are, after all, alone in the world.

"What are you doing on the ground?" He asks softly. You jump at the sound of his voice, shoulders twitching in the moonlight.

"I fell." You hiccup. "You're right to send me away Samuel. I'm nothing more than a useless, selfish burden."

Sam kneels down beside you, covering you with the cloak. It's gesture that makes you cry even harder, burying your face in your hands. "Don't say that," he sighs.

"If you could just help me get to town I'll be out of your way. I know you hate me and want to be rid of me, but I'm not sure I can make it to Martha's on my own. I seem to have hurt my leg."

Sam smiles to himself in the dark, bending down and scooping you into his arms without so much as a word.

It's in this moment, when you're balling like a baby, that you admit your own feelings. You wish for nothing more than his arms around you in the night, holding you close and safe. You can imagine what it would be like to hear gentle terms of endearment whispered from his lips. When you really let yourself succumb to the fantasy it's with visions of his weight on top of you, moving inside you and making you his.

And you know it will never be. Because a man such as Sam could never care for someone of your selfish desires.