He takes me in as he closes the door. He looks angry, unkempt, and tired. Coming closer, he grasps my chin in one hand and turns my head to look at the bruise.

“I told you not to give them a hard time,” he says, letting me go.

I rub my chin against my shoulder still feeling his fingers on me, and I don’t know how to answer him. Wild thoughts swim in my head as I remember the last few moments on the driveway. The lipstick I’d found. Abel’s silence when I’d asked him about it.

“Abel?” I look at his back as he walks to the window and tries to open it. It doesn’t budge. He’s wearing a button-down shirt and jeans. I don’t think he had a jacket on when he got out of the car and the shirt looks like he’s slept in it. “What’s going on?”

When he looks at me, he notices my arms are still behind me. He turns me a little to look at the bonds.

“Don’t pull against them,” he says. “You just tighten them when you do that.”

“What?”

His gaze falls to my stomach as if he’s searching for signs of the pregnancy, and I find myself taking a step backward, suddenly wishing I hadn’t told him about it. I want to wrap my arms around my middle and protect my baby.

“Abel?” My stomach tenses. “Cut the ties off.” Because why hasn’t he already? Why am I bound?

He shifts his gaze back to mine. “Not yet.”

“I thought you were helping me.”

“I am. Believe it or not, I am.”

“Those men, your…friends…they did this to me.” I turn my head to make him look at the bruise.

He presses his lips together at least like maybe he doesn’t like it either. “And I warned you not to give them a hard time, Ivy.”

“They carried me off, put a sack over my head. I thought…I thought you were sending men to help me.”

“Like I already told you, I am helping you,” he repeats, sounding irritated while he checks his phone again.

“Then why can’t you untie me?”

He gestures to the men at the door. “I don’t want trouble with them. Not for you, not for me. So you’re just going to have to deal with the zip ties a little longer. Don’t struggle. It’ll be easier.”

“A little longer? How much longer?”

“Few hours.”

“Why?”

He shifts his attention to his phone, typing something in, not answering me.

“I want to go home, Abel,” I find myself saying the words before I can stop myself. This is wrong. This is all so wrong.

He tucks his phone away and tilts his head questioningly when he looks at me. “Home? Where exactly is that?” he spits. “That bastard’s house?”