Edward sighed, his eyes glistening.
"Some abnormalities only show up as the pregnancy progresses," he said gently.
He held the report out to me, pointing at a line of clinical text.
"See here? Severe cardiac underdevelopment. Multiple organ malformations." His voice cracked. "Even if the baby is born, survival rate is essentially zero."
His hands were shaking. He looked gutted.
But my gaze had drifted to something else.
The scar on his right hand—a pale ridge across the web between thumb and forefinger.
The same scar I'd seen in the profile picture of the man who'd made that post.
Identical.
My blood turned to ice.
If I remembered correctly, that scar was three months old.
I'd been two months pregnant then. We were leaving the hospital after a routine checkup when a massive wolfdog—unleashed, teeth bared—came charging straight at me.
Edward didn't hesitate. He threw himself between me and that massive dog, fighting it off with nothing but his bare hands.
In the end, the beast sank its teeth into the web of flesh between his thumb and forefinger, tearing away a chunk.
Blood everywhere. Seventeen stitches.