Deep (Chicago Underground #8)(68)

“Misty?” I called, already feeling shy and a little scared.

There was a rustle from somewhere, and I tensed up. My gaze snapped to the pepper spray that I kept in my bag, which was now by the door. Too far away. I could run out of the door. I could scream.

“Hello, Ella,” came a voice from across the room.

*

MY EYES WIDENED. I had searched the corners of every dark alley, but not my own apartment. Slowly his silhouette formed—seated in the chair by the far wall. Philip.

The thunder of my pulse was almost as loud as my voice. “How did you get in?”

A soft laugh. “Is that all you want to ask me?”

God, I had so many questions. So many demands. So many things I would say if I let myself. I missed you. I want you. Don’t leave again. “What did you do to my cat?”

“I fed her.”

I blinked, not quite imagining Philip in a three-piece suit pouring cat food into a bowl. “Why?”

He stood, and the cat jumped off his lap—clearly not thrilled with the fact that he had decided to move. She must enjoy his lap more than mine, and I couldn’t really blame her. His lap was a pretty great place to be.

I felt silly and vulnerable with the fridge open, revealing a handful of fruits and a half gallon of milk—not much else. So I shut the door and immediately realized my mistake. That faint light had been the only thing letting me see. Now I was in the dark.

And yet I could see him approach me, feel him approach me.

He stood in front of me for a long moment, and I soaked up his presence, the masculine scent of him, his heat. Two fingers lifted my chin, and I stared up into the shadow of him. I searched out corners in alleyways, and I searched out corners in him now—looking for threats.

“Did you get my postcards?”

They were stacked up beside my bed, and I would touch their edges, imagining I felt his imprint there. “You’ve been traveling.”

Every postcard had come from Chicago before. Now they came from all over the country. All over the world. Europe first. Then South America. Japan. I could hardly imagine him flying to all those places with the speed that he did.

“I’ve been studying,” he said softly.

“Studying what?”

“People. Like you.”

My heart caught in my throat. “And what did you learn?”

The hand lifting my head curved until he cupped the back of my neck. His head dipped until our breaths mingled. We breathed the same air; we occupied the same space and time, merged.

“I learned that connection is the only damn thing that matters in this cold world,” he murmured before pressing his lips to mine. He kissed me as if to prove his words, a research paper written with his tongue and his teeth, an argument he made, an invasion of my mouth.

“What else?” I whispered when he pulled back.

I felt him smile against me, and then he kissed me again, this time nibbling on my lip until I felt an answering clench lower in my body. “I learned that I could be surrounded by people, more people than I’d ever seen, but I could be completely alone.”

“Yes,” I whispered urgently, because that was my entire life, my whole life crowded but empty.

Alone.

My arms curled around his neck, and I pulled him down to me, hands clenched in the silky wool of his suit jacket. He answered immediately, one hand on my hip holding me close. Not alone right now.

And then I realized his neck was bare. “Your mother’s ring. It’s gone.”

“I don’t need it anymore,” he said. “I’ll never forget her. She’s already here.” He put his hand over his heart, and I couldn’t help it—I put my hand over his, feeling the intense heat of him. No gentle warmth with Philip. His love was pure lava, hot and thick.

Between our bodies I felt him—hot and thick, indeed. “What else?”

He bent until his lips were against my forehead. “I learned that you were with me, wherever I went. I couldn’t get away from you.”

My breath caught. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Bad?” he murmured, his hands lowering to my hips. He pushed me against him. “It’s the worst, kitten. I’m weak like this. Ruined. I need you too much.”

It was my turn to smile, though there were tears too. Happiness and sadness. Hope and despair, they came hand in hand. Light and dark. “What will you do about it?”

“Something I wouldn’t have done before. Couldn’t.”

That surprised me. And appealed to me in a dark way. Was there anything Philip couldn’t do? “What’s that?”

“Ask permission.”

A breath shuddered out of me. “For what?”

“To touch you. To keep you.” His hand reached for me and then clenched. “To love you.”

All the loneliness, all the fear that kept me isolated. All of it had led me to him. “God, Philip. You never needed my permission to love me.”

“Didn’t I?” He looked almost haunted. “What has my love done for you?”

That question was why he had pushed away every person he cared about. It was why he had left me. “Love isn’t a means to an end. It isn’t money or a gun. Love is the goal, the beginning and the end. And I love you, Philip Murphy.”