Page 26 of Ghost's Angel

“With the right support, their lives could really change for the better.”

"The club's behind you one hundred percent." The brothers voted unanimously to support her vision. Hell, even hardass Saint got misty-eyed when she presented her plans. "Got Saint working with the lawyers to draft up the paperwork for a non-profit now."

"Really?" She sits up, eyes shining. "You mean it?"

"'Course I do." I pull her back down, kissing her deeply. "Told you before, angel. Anything you want, I’ll make it happen."

She straddles my hips again, the movement making my cock stir with renewed interest. "Anything?"

"Name it."

Second Epilogue

Mira

Five Years Later

The sizzle of bacon and quiet chatter of sleepy voices fills the kitchen with warmth as our fourteen-year-old daughter Sarah helps our twelve-year-old son Marcus with his math homework while ten-year-old Jenny braids eight-year-old Amy's hair.

My heart—now as strong and steady as an athlete’s—swells with love as I watch them. These children, all former foster siblings from the Petersons' household, have blossomed in the five years since Ghost and I adopted them. Where once there were haunted eyes and hesitant smiles, now there is laughter and the kind of security I wish I'd had at their ages.

"Mom!" Jenny calls out. "Amy won't sit still!"

“I’m trying,” Amy protests, wiggling in her chair. “But Uncle Blade says I have ants in my pants.”

The familiar bickering brings a smile to my face. "Girls," I say, using my 'mom voice' that still sometimes surprises me. "Let's focus on getting ready for school."

Heavy footsteps on the stairs announce my man’s arrival before his strong arms wrap around my waist from behind."Morning, angel," he murmurs against my neck, and even after five years, his touch still sends shivers of delight down my spine.

"Dad!" He releases me to catch Amy as she launches herself at him, lifting her high in the air while the others cluster around.

My deathly-dangerous biker husband—the man other outlaws fear—is putty in our children's hands. His duality still amazes me. I love him more every day for a thousand little reasons, not the least of which is the way he's embraced fatherhood, pouring all that protective instinct into giving these kids the stable, loving home they deserve.

"Alright, rugrats,” he growls playfully. "Let your mom finish cooking before the prospects eat all the bacon."

As if summoned, Rash—now a fully patched member—pokes his head in. "Speaking of bacon..." He grins at me hopefully.

"Out!" Ghost barks, but there's no real heat in it. Rash is family too, just like all the MC brothers. The kids adore their "uncles," and the entire club has embraced our unorthodox family with open arms.

After breakfast and the controlled chaos of getting four kids off to school, I head to my office in the building next door. The Foster Youth Foundation has grown beyond my wildest dreams, helping hundreds of aging-out foster kids transition successfully to adulthood. We provide housing assistance, job training, medical care—everything I wished I'd had when I was struggling alone.

My assistant hands me the day's schedule as I settle behind my desk. There's a board meeting at ten, then lunch with a potential donor, followed by...

A knock interrupts my thoughts. Ghost stands in the doorway, something hidden behind his back.

"Shouldn't you be in church?" I ask, though my pulse quickens at his presence.

He shakes his head, entering and closing the door. "Got something more important first." His eyes, those mesmerizing steel-gray pools I fell in love with, hold mine intently. "Happy fifth anniversary, angel."

He perches his sexy ass on the edge of my desk and from behind his back, produces a small velvet box.

My hands shake slightly with excited anticipation as I take it, already emotional, though I have no idea what's inside.

"Open it," he urges softly.

I lift the lid and the world stops spinning.

There, nestled on black velvet, is my mother's gold locket. The very one I'd been forced to pawn years ago to afford my heart medication. The only memento I had of my parents.

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