Reaper (Boston Underworld, #2)

by A. Zavarelli

“Nobody else gets to see you like that,” he declares. “Ye’re claimed.”

“Her legs are too wee for the stairs,” he explains as he points at the offending limbs. “She can’t get down them to go outside.” I laugh, and he stares at me in confusion. “She’s got you wrapped around her little paws,” I tell him.

This man resting on my lap is my whole world. The sun rises and sets with him.

I just caught the boss and the underboss of the Irish mob blushing over a baby.

“My anam cara,” we both repeat together. They are the same words carved into our wedding rings in Ogham script. The words that mean, quite simply, his soul is mated to mine.

My life, my love, my breath. May we always have each other in this life and the next.