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She glances at me, then back at the screen. “I’m having trouble getting the reading I want from Baby B. Let me try a different angle.”

Beside me, Bane shifts closer to the examination table. He hasn’t taken his eyes off the monitor since we walked into the room, and he’s spent the last twenty minutes pretending he understands what he’s looking at every time the technician identifies a head, spine, or tiny foot.

“What kind of reading?” he asks.

“The heartbeat keeps slipping out of range because of the baby’s position.”

My stomach clenches. “You can’t find it?”

“I had it earlier, but I want a clearer measurement.”

She presses the wand farther across my side, and I watch her expression instead of the screen because I’ve learned enough during this pregnancy to know that medical professionals can say reassuring things but their faces tell a completely different story.

Bane’s thumb moves across my knuckles. “They were both moving this morning.”

I turn toward him. “Were they?”

“One of them kicked me around three.”

“You were awake at three?”

“You kicked me too.”

Despite the fear climbing through me, I give him a look. “I did not.”

His eyes finally leave the screen long enough to meet mine. “You did, and then you stole most of the blanket.”

“That sounds fabricated.”

“You apologized in your sleep.”

That gets a breath of laughter out of me, which I suspect was his intention, but it disappears when the technician shifts the wand again and reaches toward the controls beside the monitor.

“I’m going to bring Dr. Keller in so she can take a look.”

My fingers clamp around Bane’s hand.

“Why?” I ask.

“She’ll get a better angle than I can, and I’d rather have her check than keep moving you around.”

The explanation sounds perfectly reasonable, but my body reacts before my brain has a chance to accept it.

The technician leaves, and I stare at the closed door, every appointment we’ve had since July runs through my head. Every heartbeat. Every measurement. Every conversation about how well the pregnancy is progressing.

All of it suddenly feels fragile.

Bane rises from his chair and moves beside me. “Emma.”

I press both hands over my stomach. “I’m trying to remember when I felt them last.”

“This morning.”

“You said one kicked you.”

“Both were moving.”

I look up at him, and the tension in his face tells me he’s every bit as frightened as I am despite how controlled he sounds.