His eyes had locked onto a small, distinct birthmark on her exposed shoulder — a dark, slightly irregular oval, roughly the size of a thumbprint, sitting just below her collarbone.
He stood completely still, his breathing suddenly shallow.
“No,” he whispered. “That’s impossible.”
⸻
“Desmond?” I said, pushing myself up slightly against the pillows despite how tired I was. “What’s wrong? What is it?”
He didn’t answer right away, still staring down at that small mark like it might disappear if he looked at it long enough.
⸻
“Desmond,” I said again, more firmly this time, real fear starting to creep into my own voice. “You’re scaring me. What’s wrong with her?”
⸻
“Nothing’s wrong with her,” he said quietly, finally looking up at me. “Nothing medical, I mean. It’s a birthmark. Completely normal. I just—”
He stopped, his voice catching.
