Again.

It was the same danged dream, again.

Once more, Harper had found herself naked, freezing in a long, frozen hall.

Once more, she had run towards the light in the distance only to find herself trapped behind a solid wall of ice.

Once more, she had slammed her fists against the wall, trying to break through to what she knew, but didn't really know, lay on the other side.

Once more, the wall had cracked, revealing just a glimpse of brilliantly glowing blue eyes.

And once more, that disturbingly low, bestial voice had growled, "Found you," just before she woke up!

What really disturbed Harper, though, was the effect the dream had on her body, particularly her libido. Why did those eyes cause her nipples to draw tight in anticipation? Why did that growling, bestial voice make her core clench with such intense need? And why was the crotch of her panties completely drenched—and not by sweat—by the time she decided to just get out of bed?

Always an early riser anyways, Harper nevertheless groaned in frustration when she saw it wasn't even five-in-the-morning. It was going to take her a little longer to adjust to the time zone differences between the East Coast and the Rockies. Since she knew it was pointless to try and get back to sleep at this point, not when she was this frustrated, she forced herself out of the warm cocoon of her bed and got her day started.

It took Harper a little while to properly warm-up before she began her daily yoga routine, since she had skipped the last few days while traveling, and her sore muscles protested after their little vacation. With her headphones on, however, Harper lost herself in the original Broadway cast recording of Wicked, as she moved her body through her sun salutations.

While Harper was what many would indeed consider a "bigger" woman, she was comfortable with her body. She usually ate properly, dressed to compliment her figure in clothes that fit properly and emphasized her figure, and regularly did yoga to stay in shape. Even if it was a larger shape than society currently deemed pleasing. Been there, done that, and thankfully had mostly gotten over the eating disorders and psychological damage struggling to be the size 6 her grandmother had insisted upon.

Nope. Never again. While the Llewellyn women tended to be petite and willowy, the Morgan family came from "peasant stock," as Grandmother Llewellyn disdainfully sniffed. The Morgan women tended more towards being tall, big-boned, healthy as horses, strong as oxen, and stubborn as a jackass.

After finishing her morning yoga, Harper took a long, hot shower, luxuriating in the steamy heat soaking into her muscles until the water growing tepid forced her out of the shower. Putting her hair up in a towel, she wrapped a bath sheet around herself, tucked her feet into her pink bunny slippers—don't judge, they were comfortable—and padded towards the kitchen.

Stretching languidly, Harper walked into the tiny kitchenette of the little studio of her cottage. Yes, her cottage. That was going to take a bit of getting used to. Her condo in Atlanta had been downtown, close to work, and it had been expensive and professionally decorated. Everything in its proper place, a proper place for every thing. As an attorney, and particularly as a Llewellyn, she had had an image to project, one that had to come as second nature to her as breathing, because the one thing her grandparents could not deal with was being "embarrassed."

Years of etiquette, of enunciation to help soften her Georgia accent without eliminating it entirely, since a "proper Southern Lady" retained her accent, but did not sound like some backwoods redneck fresh off the set of Deliverance. And yes, Deliverance took place in Georgia, so it was brought up far more often than Harper liked to remember.

As she opened the fridge, pulling out some yogurt and orange juice, Harper ruminated over the previous night's dinner. It had been quite entertaining. She had finally been introduced to Clara, face-to-face, and the two women had gotten along quite well. Rik had been charming, Samantha had been Sam, and Bertie had come out of the kitchen often to check on them as they ate the most incredible beef Wellingtons Harper had ever had the pleasure to devour.

Even now, her mouth watered remembering not only the Wellingtons, perfectly paired with roasted vegetables, an absolutely luscious serving of mashed potatoes, and a rich, dark gravy that tied everything together. The perfect finale, however, was what Bertie called his "Rocky Mountain Gâteau."

It was three layers of decadent, dark chocolate sponge cake, soaked in a cherry brandy, with a layer of fudge and a layer of honey-caramel, covered with an absolutely obscene amount of fresh whipped cream laced with flecks of bittersweet chocolate, then topped with chocolate-covered cherries and surrounded by chocolate bark along the sides. It. Was. Amazing.

Sam had pouted at both Bertie and Rik telling her she could only have a single bite, given there was alcohol in the cake, and the obscene amount of chocolate, but she had settled down when Bertie had brought her out a miniature honey-and-lavender cheesecake with candied rose petals that left her groaning. The nearly orgasmic sounds Sam had been making swiftly led Rik to politely excusing the both of them, then sweeping the giggling, protesting red head up into his arms and making a beeline for the exit.

Eyeing the slice of the gâteau she had brought home, Harper glanced at the orange juice and yogurt in her hands. Shrugging, she put it back, grabbed the milk and the cake.

"Breakfast of champions," Harper said aloud. She had done her yoga that morning, she deserved a reward! Besides, it totally had both fruit and eggs in it, and she was drinking milk. See? Healthy! Okay, she wasn't buying that either, but that cake was addictive!

Sitting at the small island that divided the kitchenette from the main room, Harper hummed to herself as she caught up on personal emails, completely ignored her business emails, and updated her Facebook status, while she polished off her milk and cake. Glancing at the clock, she saw that it was approaching seven.

Quickly rinsing off her dishes, she headed back into the bathroom so she could finish her morning routine. Another facial cleanse, toner and serum, moisturizer with SPF protection, but she decided to forgo the full routine. A little blush, lip gloss, and a quick brush of eye shadow and mascara, and she was ready for her day, which would consist of unloading the rest of her stuff, starting to set-up her supplies and materials, and figure out what she'd need to get everything up and operational in the next two weeks.

Filled with a giddy anticipation she couldn't remember feeling in a long time, Harper opened her luggage and considered her options. Frowning slightly, she made a mental note to go shopping for more casual clothing, as she realized she didn't really have much she could comfortably do any physical labor in, much less anything she could wear while puttering around making glass.

First things first, head into town and get some jeans and t-shirts!

With a strange sense of reluctance at putting on clothes more representative of the life she had left behind, she cheered herself up with the thought of actually getting casual clothes. Finally settling on a pair of simple, tailored dove gray slacks and a button-down silk blouse in a pale, blushing pink, Harper also pulled out her pair of gray Manolo Blahnik tweed flats.

Pulling off the terry cloth towel, she dressed in one of her favorite, most comfortable, lingerie sets, a pale champagne-colored cami-bra and pair of modified boy-shorts that enhanced her curves and kept them under some semblance of control. They weren't extravagant, unlike most of her clothes, but while most of her wardrobe was high end and functional, it was her lingerie that she let more of her true self come out.

Sadly, it had been a long, long time since she had gotten to wear any of her more daring, intimate pieces, but she had packed some of her favorites nevertheless! One could never tell when you needed to bring out the big guns, and Harper liked to be prepared!

Dressed, and with her thick mane tamed into a chignon at her nape, Harper gave herself a satisfied nod in the mirror. Lifting her hand to her neck, she eyed the exposed expanse for a moment as she debated jewelry, but after a rueful glance at her now bare left wrist, decided against.

Grabbing her things, she folded her coat over her arm as she bounced down stairs. Sparing the empty display space, she allowed a small, happy grin free.

I'm really doing it. First steps towards my life on my terms taken!

Cheerfully humming under her breath, she set the alarm, swung open the door, stepped outside, and had to brace herself.

It was freaking freezing!

Instantly glad for the padding of her cami-bra, Harper quickly shrugged into her long, heavy overcoat. Man, times like these, I actually appreciate being on the fluffy side.

Getting used to the chilly Rocky Mountain air was going to be a work in progress, for sure. It was already a little passed dawn, the sky was already a crystal blue, but in the shadow cast by Shadow Mountain—oh, so appropriately named—the sun had yet to make its appearance. The otherwise balmy Spring kept lulling her into a false sense of security. Tricky weather!

As she stood framed in the doorway of her cottage, pulling on the gloves she fished out of her coat, she gaped as she witnessed a wide man wearing little more than a Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts casually walking by as it if wasn't a bazillion-degrees-below-zero outside.

She couldn't get a look at his face, since he had two long, heavy looking crates resting on either inhumanly wide shoulder. Likewise, she couldn't get a good look at the guy walking beside him, because although he was apparently at least half-a-foot taller, he was likewise carrying a single crate perched on his t-shirt clad shoulder. His short-sleeved t-shirt clad shoulder, that revealed a rather impressively muscular forearm.

At least Mr. T-Shirt was wearing blue jeans and work boots, not Bermuda shorts and toeless sandals.

Unable to tear her gaze away from the two mutants who apparently thought it was the middle of Summer, Harper pursed her lips in pure appreciation at the broad backs and rather tight, muscular asses revealed by both men as they headed beneath the overhang leading to the forge across the broad stone path from her place. She watched in silent fascination as they unloaded the crates and their bags, with Mr. T-Shirt helping Mr. Hawaii-Bermuda, who he called pappa.

Hearing the older man groan as he straightened up and rolled his shoulders, Harper fought back a grin as the Mr. T-Shirt teased him with, “Considering how ancient and decrepit you are?”

Then Mr. T-Shirt stretched, twisting slightly from side-to-side, and Harper's eyes widened. The black t-shirt rode up, revealing a sinfully narrow waist, and a flash of pale, creamy skin as the powerful muscles of his lower back flexed, revealing the potent strength straining the limits of the poor cotton fabric of his shirt. His jeans cupped a truly incredible ass, and those thighs...

Harper bit her lower lip to stifle a whimper as that ass and those massive thighs flexed.

“I’m just glad sorry there wasn’t any pretty ladies around to witness our display of manliness," Mr. T-Shirt said teasingly to his father, and it was too good an opportunity for Harper to pass up.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said, only slightly exaggerating her accent. “But if only you had announced you would be performing, I would have been sure to appreciate all that sheer manliness appropriately.”

Instantly, both men spun to face her, doing that silly thing where men throw their shoulders back and puff out their chests in a display of manliness or whatever. Like peacocks with their tails, only men lead with their chests! You'd have thought they were the ones with breasts they felt the need to present on platters or something. Having worked steadily with quite a few professional football players over the last few years, Harper had seen plenty of that.

...although, she did have to admit, both of these men could have given any of those professional athletes lessons on masculine presentation.

Hot heck, even Bodybuilder Santa is built like a brick outhouse! What the H-E-Double-Hockey Sticks are they feeding the Uncannies out here?

Because there was absolutely no doubt in Harper's mind that both men were supernaturals, particularly since their eyes flashed with that weird incandescence that only true shifters seemed to possess.

Harper wanted to gawk a bit more at Bodybuilder Santa, but the taller one, Mr. T-Shirt, had seized her full attention.

He had an arresting face, with a long, narrow nose, high cheekbones, and eyes that rivaled the morning sky in the intensity of their utter blueness. His hair was shaved to nothing but a light golden peach fuzz on the sides of his head, while the ash-blond hair on his crown had been left long, but was pulled back into a "manbun" tail, that should have looked ridiculous, but combined with the thick golden beard and his massive build, just reinforced the whole "Viking" thing he was rocking like he had invented it.

If Chris Hemsworth was the pretty Thor who'd sweep you off your feet and make sweet, sweet love to you, Mr. T-Shirt was the bad ass biker Thor who'd toss you over his shoulder, spank your ass while you struggled, and then kissed it better while he made you beg to pillage and plunder.

Thirty seconds ago, Harper would have told you she preferred the first.

Now? Harper knew she'd never be able to accept less than the "Full Viking Experience."

Fucker.

Still locking gazes with Mr. T-Shirt, Harper's breath left her chest in a whoosh when they ignited from within, flawless aquamarines suddenly aflame; the same blazing, icy blue eyes from her dreams. Instinctively, Harper stepped forward, her hand lifting, stretching up.

"Heksa! Witch!"

The old, ornery bastard probably hadn't meant to roar those aloud, but the pure spite and disgust in his voice had Harper instinctively flinching back. Likewise, it was instinct for her to curl the fingers of her right hand just so as she brought her left hand up in a warding, protective gesture. The force of her magic nearly staggered her as she felt the tendrils of energy wrap about her, undulating and ready for anything.

"And we're done," Harper declared, instantly drawing her haughtiest, coldest attorney guise about herself. "I remind you both, we are within the boundaries of a Sanctuary. Any act of aggression will be instantly turned back upon the aggressor, and I have no wish to draw undue ire. Stay out of my way, I shall stay out of yours."

Pinning both men with her iciest glare, Harper sniffed, tilting her chin so she could look down her nose. "It was...interesting...making your acquaintance. Now please, have a lovely morning, gentlemen."

And with that, Harper stalked off. Head held high, back stiff, filled with righteous indignation...and not a little disappointment at the knowledge that Mr. T-Shirt had apparently been raised by a bigot.