...Heather stirred the skewered cherry around in her soda. Seemed the bartenders in South Beach thought it amusing to dress up their drinks, alcoholic or not. Since arriving some three days ago, she hadn’t gotten one beverage that didn’t sport an orange slice, pineapple wedge, or some other type of impaled fruit.

She’d debated taking the plastic sword and sticking it in the bartender’s eye when he’d set it before her, but decided against it. The last thing she wanted to do was make a scene. She’d come to Miami to blend in with the throngs of college kids currently on Spring Break; stabbing her server certainly wouldn’t promote blending in.

Heather eyeballed the attractive guy sitting on the barstool next to her. Her assessing gaze swept him from his wavy, sandy-blond hair to his moderately sized feet. He had a lean, athletic build and youthful skin; she guessed him to be in his mid-twenties.

He’d make a fine bed-partner.

And afterward, a tasty snack.

“So where are you going to school?”

He glanced at her, his sea green eyes sparkling with interest. His gaze dropped from her face to her breasts, lingering a long moment to ostensibly appreciate their ample size before sliding lower to focus on the large swell of her abdomen. His assessment faltered.

“You shouldn’t drink when you’re pregnant, you know,” he said matter-of-factly.

Heather bristled at the haughtiness of his tone. She clenched her jaw, struggling to control her temper. Restraining her inner beast became more difficult with each passing night of the lunar cycle.

For three moons of the month—the full and the two preceding—she became a force to be reckoned with. Last night was the first. Tonight would make two. And tomorrow would be worse.

“It’s virgin,” she ground out through a fake smile. “I don’t drink.”

She lied, of course. She drank all the time, even more so since the manifestation of her current state. Nothing else dulled her pain.

Not that she didn’t care about the child in her womb. She did. She just doubted alcohol would cause it much harm. No, silver bullets were her baby’s only enemy. Well, silver bullets and Cray McCorbin.

Though he shared her ailment—if one considered lycanthropy to be some sort of disease—he still saw fit to hunt and kill his own kind. The man had proved relentless. After he’d disposed of Graham, her baby’s father, he’d targeted her.

Regardless of how many obstacles she put in his way, he refused to stop hunting her. Oh, she’d managed to slow him down, throw a few detours in his trail. But once he’d eliminated her progenies, he steadfastly resumed his search for her.

It’d been nearly nine months since she’d started running from Cray, nine long months. But despite how tired she’d grown of late, she needed a little more time. Her baby would come soon, perhaps at the conclusion of the current lunar cycle. She just hoped her surroundings masked her scent until then.

Although her hormones were working on overtime, Cray would have a hard time pinpointing her location. Right now, hundreds of horny college girls flocked South Beach’s Lummus Park and all its surrounding attractions. The very air teemed with the smell of sex, a veritable cesspool of pheromones.