As she studied the green paper receipt in her hand and read the scrawling handwriting, her hope died a swift death. Once again, she didn’t get what she had ordered. As in life.

She wasn’t going to dig into her favorite baked ziti and Caesar salad. Nope. Instead, it would be veal Parmesan and house salad.

Claire fumbled inside her wallet, her movements jerky. The telephone started to ring, but she ignored it.

Suddenly, she paused, fingers tightening on the bills as she looked up at the bored-looking deliveryman holding out the brown paper bag of food to her.

“You know,” she began slowly, “I ordered baked ziti and a Caesar salad.” She held out the green paper receipt to verify her claim.

He took it from her and squinted. “Says here you ordered the veal.”

“Yes, I know what it says,” she drew out her words, “but I know what I ordered. Baked ziti and Caesar salad.”

He looked from the receipt to her again, asking in his thick accent, “You’re saying you don’t want it?” He held up the bag of food.

“I want ziti,” she clearly enunciated each word, hoping to get her point across.

He frowned and grumbled, “What am I going do with the veal?”

“I don’t know,” she snapped. “Use it to wax your car for all I care. All I know is that I ordered baked ziti. I’ll pay for baked ziti. I’ll eat baked ziti.” She pointed to the bag. “Not that.”

Maybe it was silly to take a stand over such a trivial thing, but she’d suffered enough disappointments lately. A woman nursing a broken heart had a right to the comfort food of her own choice. And if Claire couldn’t take a stand over something so minor, then she really was the same old mousy Claire.

“I’m not coming back here again tonight,” he warned, waving the bag of food between them. “Take the veal, lady, or—”

“I’m not,” Claire said between her teeth, “taking the veal.” That said, she firmly closed the door in his face.

She stood there a moment, leaning against the door’s solid length, breathing unusually fast, knowing that she had just done a hell of a lot more than take a stand over an incorrect order of food. Staring down at her shaking hands, she felt a smile tug her lips. Suddenly, she was seized with confidence.

I’m fine. Strong. Not the mouse. But not the beast either.

For the first time in her life, she was exactly what she should be.

Herself. The person she was meant to be before she allowed fear to rule her. Maybe turning into a lycan, even for a short time, had been a blessing. She’d been given the gift of herself. She’d been given Gideon.