Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Tabby
S ix months after our dumpster diving confrontation, I'm sprawled across Duffield's massive chest, admiring the crescents my nails left during last night's activities. He wears my marks like badges of honor—each scratch and bite a reminder that he may own this penthouse, but I own him.
"Morning, little kitty," he rumbles, voice still thick with sleep. His fingers trace my spine, lingering at the small of my back. “How’s our little one feeling this morning?”
I stretch against him, purposely digging my knees into his ribs. "Morning, big dog. Baby is fine, I still haven’t felt any movement but Dr. Traverse said that’s normal for being three months along."
“Okay, but don’t ever cancel an appointment with him again. Hard line. Do not cross. I moved him here to Detroit from Texas just to take care of you until the baby is born. He’s the best and you will keep every appointment. Understand?”
I shake my head, batting at the meaty finger he’s pointing at my nose.
He grunts but doesn't complain. Progress. The man who once threatened dumpster divers now tolerates my sharp edges—even seems to crave them.
"Stop plotting," he murmurs against my hair as he kisses the top of my head.
"I never plot." I nip his pectoral. "I pounce."
To demonstrate, I slide down his body in one fluid motion, dragging my tongue along the ridged muscles of his stomach. His breath catches when I reach my destination, his massive hands fisting in the sheets rather than my hair—another compromise we've reached. He doesn't grab; I don't scratch. At least not there.
"Fuck, Tabby." His hips rise as I take him between my lips, savoring his hardness and the way he surrenders to me despite his strength. But, to my surprise, he pulls my head upward until I release him with a pop. "Later. We have plans today."
His groan of frustration fills me with satisfaction as I bound from the bed, still naked, tail swinging behind me. I never take it off except to clean it—my constant reminder of our first day together.
"Evil woman." He props himself on his elbows, watching me saunter toward the bathroom.
"You love it." I blow him a kiss before disappearing to shower.
When I emerge, wrapped in a towel with my pink hair dripping, Duffield is on the phone—his business voice in full effect.
"I don't care how he feels about it. Either he accepts our terms, or he deals with the consequences." He pauses, noticing me. Something shifts in his expression—softening even as his words remain steel. "Handle it. I have more important matters today."
He ends the call, tossing the phone aside with practiced indifference. "Ready for your surprise?"
"What surprise?" I drop my towel deliberately, enjoying how his eyes darken.
"Get dressed, troublemaker." He smacks my ass as he passes to take his own shower. "Ingrid's meeting us there."
Ingrid. The sister. We've developed an uneasy truce these past months—her initial hostility gradually giving way to reluctant respect after I stood my ground during one of her intimidation attempts.
"You know he'll tire of the cat thing eventually," she'd said, examining her perfect manicure.
I'd just smiled. "I'm not worried."
"No? Why's that?"
"Because I've already made him my pet." I'd shown her the scratch marks down his back from the night before.
She'd stared for three heartbeats before erupting in genuine laughter—a sound that transformed her sharp features into something almost sweet.
We've been almost-friends since.
I dress in a black pencil skirt (Duffield's kryptonite), emerald silk blouse that matches my eyes, and my newest headband—platinum cat ears with tiny diamonds that match the collar I never remove from my throat.
In the kitchen, I feed our growing family of cats—now numbering twelve after Duffield insisted on adopting three strays we found behind his warehouse. The man who claimed to hate weakness can't resist a hungry kitten.
The ride to our mystery destination takes thirty minutes, during which Duffield's hand never leaves my thigh. His possessiveness hasn't diminished—if anything, it's intensified with time. The difference is he's learned to express it without caging me.
We pull up to an unfamiliar building only three minutes from the penthouse. Ingrid waits outside, tapping her stiletto with impatience.
"You're late," she announces as we exit the car.
"Blame your brother," I smile sweetly. "He needed extra attention this morning."
She wrinkles her nose. "Spare me the details."
Duffield just smirks, wrapping his arm around my waist. "You have everything?"
She holds up a folder and keys. "All set."
"Someone want to tell me what's happening?" I look between them.
"Follow me," Ingrid commands, unlocking the building's front door.
Inside, I'm greeted by a sleek, modern space with floor-to-ceiling windows and polished concrete floors. But what catches my attention are the custom-built cat structures integrated into the design—climbing walls, overhead walkways, window perches.
"What is this place?" I whisper, turning in a slow circle.
"Yours." Duffield's voice holds rare vulnerability. "If you want it."
Ingrid hands me the folder. Inside are property deeds, business licenses, and incorporation papers for "Tabby's Gourmet Pet Nutrition."
"I don't understand." My fingers trace the embossed logo—a stylized cat with my signature ears.
"You were right that night in the alley," Duffield explains. "About waste and need. About your independence." He gestures around. "I've watched you mixing foods for our cats, creating special blends. You have talent."
"So big brother decided to channel it," Ingrid continues. "This is a production facility, test kitchen, and retail space. You can develop your own pet food line, focusing on natural ingredients and minimal waste."
"But how—"
"I'm divesting my pet store holdings," Duffield interrupts. "Selling everything except this. And this isn't mine—it's yours. Your business, to run however you see fit."
Emotion clogs my throat. Independence wrapped in support—the perfect gift.
"I drew up the contracts myself," Ingrid adds. "He can't take it back, even if you dump his ugly ass."
I laugh through sudden tears. "I'm not planning to."
"There's more," Duffield says, leading me toward the back.
A door opens to reveal a fully furnished apartment—spacious, modern, and clearly designed with both human and feline comfort in mind.
"For Nana," he explains. "She's already approved it. Close enough for visits but far enough for privacy. Her bridge club can meet in the community room downstairs."
The tears flow freely now. "What about her house? You got it all fixed up for her.”
“She misses you. And you miss her. Fifteen miles is too far.”
“You did all this for me?"
"For us," he corrects. "Happy cat, happy life."
Ingrid makes a gagging sound. "And that's my cue to leave. Grand opening is scheduled for next month. The contractors need your approval on final touches." She hands me another set of keys. "Don't fuck it up."
With that parting wisdom, she click-clacks toward the exit, pausing at the door. "Family dinner Sunday. Don't be late."
When she's gone, I turn to Duffield. "I can't believe you did this."
"Believe it." His hands frame my face. "You saved me, Tabby. From loneliness. From hardness. From myself."
I rise on tiptoes, pressing my lips to his. "Who knew the big, bad mobster was just a kitten at heart?"
"Don't push it," he growls playfully. "I still have a reputation."
"Speaking of reputations..." I back him against the wall, my hands working at his belt. "I think this office needs christening."
His eyes darken. "Is that so? You’re the boss now?”
" Always." I drop to my knees, looking up through my lashes. "Unless you're scared Ingrid might come back?"
Challenge accepted.
In one swift motion, he lifts me, spins us, and pins me against the wall. "Let her. The whole world should know you're mine."
"And you're mine," I remind him, wrapping my legs around his waist.
He enters me in one powerful thrust that steals my breath. "Always."
We move together with familiar urgency, my nails scoring his shoulders as he drives deeper. The novelty may have faded, but the intensity hasn't—if anything, knowing each other's bodies has made this better, more precise in its pleasure.
"Harder," I demand, biting his earlobe.
He complies, hitching my legs higher, angling perfectly against my sweet spot. "Like this?"
"Yes—there—don't stop—"
A crash interrupts us as several contractors enter through the front door, oblivious to our activities in the semi-concealed office area.
"Shit," Duffield whispers, freezing mid-thrust.
I should be mortified. Instead, I feel reckless excitement surging through me. "Don't. You. Dare. Stop."
His eyes widen, then narrow with wicked understanding. He covers my mouth with one massive hand, muffling my moans as he resumes moving, slower but deeper, the danger of discovery heightening every sensation.
The voices grow closer—discussing cabinet finishes and electrical outlets—completely unaware that mere feet away, Detroit's most feared mobster is fucking his pink-haired, cat-eared girlfriend against the wall.
The forbidden thrill pushes me over the edge, my body convulsing around him as he follows, burying his face in my neck to silence his own release.
We remain locked together, trembling and suppressing laughter as the contractors move toward another area. When he finally sets me down, my legs nearly buckle.
"You're insane," he whispers, tucking himself away and straightening my skirt.
"You love it," I counter, adjusting my headband.
"I love you," he corrects, the words still new enough to make my heart skip.
I rise on tiptoes again, pressing my forehead to his. "I love you too, Big Dog."
And in that moment—disheveled in our new business venture, surrounded by evidence of his devotion and my independence—I know we've found our perfect balance. He's still the monster who rules Detroit's underworld with an iron fist. I'm still the alleycat who refuses to be tamed.
But together? Together we're home.