Captive Cat

Captive Cat

A female cat burglar is captured on a job -- by sex traffickers.

When expert cat burglar Kat Weaver slips into the Jensen estate in California seeking valuables, she unknowingly steps into the lair of predators. Magnus and Julia Jensen—sophisticated and sadistic—transform her from confident thief to helpless captive. Stripped, used, and systematically broken, Kat endures a month of calculated torment designed to shatter her will and reshape her purpose.

During an exclusive party at the Jensen home, DSS agent Ray Cooper infiltrates their circle, investigating their trafficking operation. Instead of gathering evidence, he finds himself trapped alongside Kat, forced into unthinkable acts carefully captured on video for blackmail. Two victims, different cages, bound by the same manipulative hands.

Then Kat is sold to the mysterious Samir Khan. Transported to Saudi Arabia, Kat is plunged into the depths of a shadowy underworld where women are commodities, and escape is a distant dream.

As Kat descends further into this labyrinth of exploitation and cruelty, one haunting question remains: in a world where everyone sees her as property, can she reclaim her freedom and identity? Or will the dark desires awakened in captivity become the final chains binding her to a life she never chose?

Captive Cat is a blistering dark romance thriller where power, obsession, and survival collide. For fans of dark romance who crave the forbidden and aren’t afraid to walk the line between fear and desire.

First in the Captive Cat series. The story concludes with Cat in Chains.

Sample below!

Captive Cat

Olivia Bond

(For Adults Only)

CHAPTER ONE

She promised herself that this would be the last time.

Kat Weaver's eyes flickered between the monitors mounted on the van's interior wall, each screen offering a different angle of the hillside mansion. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the concrete and glass structure, creating dramatic contrasts that emphasized its sharp angles and expansive floor-to-ceiling windows. She shifted on her seat, the leather squeaking beneath her as beads of sweat formed on her forehead. The van's air conditioning fought a losing battle against the summer heat as it hummed on the roof, but the discomfort was a minor price to pay for what waited inside those walls.

On the central monitor, a sleek black Mercedes pulled away from the main entrance. Kat checked her watch—4:17 PM—then made a note in the small leather-bound journal balanced on her knee. The owners, a venture capital investor and his wife, were right on schedule. According to Kat’s two-week-long surveillance, they wouldn't return for at least three hours. Their regular Thursday evening routine: dinner at Valentino's, followed by drinks at some exclusive bar that required facial recognition and a credit check just to get past the door.

She tucked a strand of dark hair behind her ear and leaned closer to the screens. Two people remained inside—the housekeepers, who typically left around 5:30. Patience was the foundation of her profession, and Kat had it in abundance.

The van's interior smelled of roses—not surprising, given the two boxes of long-stemmed flowers sitting on the floor nearby. Flowers By Irene was emblazoned in white script across her black t-shirt, matching the magnetic signs she'd slapped on the van's exterior that morning. The sexy shorts and flip-flops completed her disguise—just another delivery driver on a routine stop, waiting for the recipients to answer their phone and open the gate, perhaps. Nothing suspicious about that.

The disguise wasn't just window dressing. Earlier that afternoon, a private security patrol had cruised past her parking spot, and had bought her story without question. The guard had even flirted with her, seemingly charmed by her practiced smile, the t-shirt that was two sizes too small for her large breasts, and the flash of her tanned legs as she leaned against the van's side.

She stretched, feeling the muscles in her back protest. The cramped quarters of the van were a necessary evil. From this vantage point halfway up the hillside at a hairpin bend in the road, she could monitor all approaches to the property while remaining virtually invisible to passing traffic. The tinted windows helped, as did her careful positioning between a large oleander bush and the vine-covered wall of a neighboring property.

Kat took a sip from a water bottle, the lukewarm liquid doing little to refresh. Her eyes never left the screens. The mansion itself was a modern masterpiece—all sharp angles and vast windows, perched on the hillside like a geometric eagle's nest. Seven bedrooms, ten bathrooms, three levels of pure luxury. The kind of place that screamed money.

But it wasn't the architecture that interested her. It was what lay within—specifically, in the master bedroom's walk-in closet, behind a false panel: a collection of rare diamonds, including a pink marquise-cut stone worth upwards of two million dollars by itself. According to her source, the owner collected diamonds like some people collected vintage wines.

This job would be her magnum opus. Her farewell performance.

Kat's mind drifted to her father, the man who'd taught her everything. She could almost hear his voice: "Always case a place for at least seven days, Kitten. People are creatures of habit, and habits create opportunities."

Frank Weaver had been a legend in certain circles—a ghost who could slip in and out of the most secure locations without leaving a trace. His specialty had been high-end residential jobs in Los Angeles, where the wealthy lived behind gates and security systems but often forgot the most basic precautions. Compared to old homes in the barrios with their security grates over windows, kick bars, heavy locks, and other basic equipment to keep the local predators out, big mansions in patrolled neighborhoods were often easier to break into. Her earliest memories were of sitting on her father’s lap while he taught her to pick simple locks, her small fingers growing increasingly dexterous under his patient guidance.

"It's all about understanding systems," he'd told her once while they watched a Beverly Hills mansion from a similar surveillance setup. "Security systems, sure, but more importantly, human systems. People follow patterns. They trust what they shouldn't. They get comfortable. Routines and comfort create vulnerability."

By sixteen, she'd been scaling walls and defeating alarm systems. By twenty, she'd developed her own reputation. By twenty-five, after her father's death from a heart attack—ironically, while sitting in a van not unlike this one—she'd become one of the most sought-after cat burglars on the west coast for those who knew how to find her.

The skills that had once felt like a birthright now sat on her shoulders like a weight. Parkour had come naturally to her—her body seemed designed for leaping, climbing, and balancing in places most people couldn't reach. Lock-picking was meditation, the tumblers falling into place with satisfying clicks under her sensitive touch. And safes—those supposedly impenetrable boxes—spoke to her in a language of subtle vibrations and resistance points. She wasn’t a fan of time locks on safes, but she never had to deal with those in residential burglaries.

Her father had also taught her enough about art to evaluate any paintings or sculpture she came across. A small canvas by a big-name artist could bring in a lot of money, but the artist or the painting couldn’t be too famous, otherwise it would be a quick ticket to a long prison sentence when she tried to fence it.

Despite all the positives, ten years of living in the shadows had taken its toll. Always moving, never settling. Relationships that couldn't go beyond the superficial because the truth was too dangerous to share and she couldn’t be emotionally tied to one place. She could get a man for the night whenever she wanted one, and her strong sex drive made sure she had one at least three times a week when she wasn’t on a job, but she always made it clear she was only in it for the sex, and most guys were fine with that. And she was always on the move. Hotel rooms and short-term rentals rather than a real home. She always knew that one mistake could mean years behind bars.

She was tired. Not of the challenge—that still thrilled her—but of the life.

A week ago, Michael Chen had offered her an exit ramp. They'd worked together years back, before he'd gone straight. Now he ran a legitimate security consulting firm, advising the wealthy on how to protect themselves from people like Kat. The irony wasn't lost on her.

"I need a partner who thinks like a thief," he'd said over drinks in a dark corner of the Loch Ness Monster Pub downtown. "Someone who sees the vulnerabilities because they've exploited them. Come work with me, Kat. Use what you know to help people."

The offer was tempting—so tempting she could taste it. A regular paycheck. Health insurance. The ability to use her real name on leases. Maybe even a permanent address where she could properly display the books she collected and had to keep in storage units scattered across three states.

All she needed was enough money to start fresh. To pay off old debts. To create the illusion of a legitimate past that would stand up to background checks. The diamonds would provide that—with enough left over to ensure she never felt tempted to return to her old ways.

On the monitor, movement caught her eye. One of the housekeepers was in the kitchen, packing up for the day. The routine was always the same: they finished their work, gathered their belongings, and left together in a well-worn Toyota. Then Kat would have approximately ninety minutes before the owners returned—more than enough time to get in, locate the diamonds, and disappear.

She picked up her lightweight backpack and checked its contents one last time: climbing shoes with special high-friction soles, a rolled-up black catsuit made of material that wouldn't reflect light, gloves thin enough to maintain dexterity but thick enough to prevent fingerprints, specialized tools for the alarm system and safe, and a small but powerful flashlight.

This job would be her swan song—one last perfect heist before reinventing herself as Katherine Weaver, security consultant. The symmetry pleased her. She would use the skills honed through years of breaking into places to help keep other burglars out. There was a certain elegant balance to it.

In a way, she'd be honoring her father's legacy while creating something new. He'd always told her that understanding both sides of a system was the key to mastering it. "To build the perfect lock," he'd said, "you need to know how to pick it."

Kat checked her watch again—4:43 PM. The waiting was always the hardest part, but she'd learned to use it constructively, mentally walking through each step of her plan, anticipating problems, identifying contingencies. Tonight's entry point would be challenging—the south wall's drainage pipe offered access to the upper floors, but required precise timing to avoid the rotating exterior cameras.

The estate's security system was high-end but predictable—motion sensors that could be bypassed, cameras with blind spots, and a central alarm that, like most systems, was only as effective as the people monitoring it. According to her research, the response time for the private security company was eight to twelve minutes—an eternity in her profession.

She took another sip of water and settled in for the wait, her body relaxed but her mind active, running through the plan again and again. Each time she found a potential flaw, she developed a workaround, filed it away in her mental catalog. By the time the housekeepers left, she'd have thought of everything. That was what separated professionals from amateurs in her line of work—not just skill, but preparation.

And Katherine Weaver was nothing if not prepared for her final performance.