Delilah’s POV
The garden was bright with birds in the lemon trees and roses leaning heavy on their stems. I cut across the gravel, heels striking hard, rehearsing which errands to parade as “useful.”
Near the stone bench, something caught the light.
I stopped, crouched, pushed the grass aside.
It was silver, polished and heavy.
A cufflink.
I rolled it, slow, and saw the engraving on the back: V.R.
Vincent Rylan.
My neck went hot. Of course he’d drop it here—right in the east garden, the same place she’d suddenly started wandering after breakfast. Like it was some secret between them, and I was left out.
I closed my fingers around the cufflink and stood. Laughter carried from the lawn—children. And her. The so-called healer. The wolf-less darling with her two little strays. She sat
