Her Birthday His Forbidden Desire novel Chapter 14

**Twilight Carves Destinies by George Orwell**

**Chapter 4**

Her voice emerged from her throat, rough and quivering, as if each word was a struggle against the weight of her reality. “Declan, can’t you see what I’ve become?”

With a shaking hand, she lifted her arm, revealing a tapestry of swollen welts, the skin marred and broken. It was a grotesque sight—deep, angry gashes snaked down her forearm, raw and horrific, a testament to her suffering.

Yet, after a moment of heavy silence, Declan steeled himself, his heart a fortress against the pain of her words. “Vivienne hasn’t slept all day. That bracelet needs to be finished tonight.”

“What if I say no?” Sloane’s eyes glistened with the remnants of tears, red-rimmed and hollow, but the tears themselves had long since dried up. “Will you lock me up again and let those damn bugs chew me alive?”

Declan, unable to meet her gaze, shut his eyes for a brief moment, exhaustion weighing heavily on him. His voice emerged soft, almost pleading. “Sloane… just hold on a bit longer. Once Vivienne’s fully recovered, once I’ve repaid her for saving my life—things between us will go back to the way they were.”

He spoke as if it were a promise carved in stone, a glimmer of hope in the darkness. Then, with a heavy heart, he placed several thick branches, each adorned with vicious thorns, on the bedside table. His tone shifted, cooling like a winter wind. “Remember, if you won’t do it, the guards will. That bracelet? They say it works best when the thorns draw real blood.”

With that, the guest room door slammed shut behind him, echoing through the silence like a death knell.

Two guards stood sentinel at the edge of the room, their presence a reminder of her captivity. “Ma’am, Mr. Hawthorne gave clear instructions. You’re to pull out every thorn with your own hands. And sand each bead yourself—start to finish.”

That night, they dragged Sloane from the comfort of her bed, her body protesting against the harshness of reality. Sleep eluded her like a distant dream.

Her fingertips were torn open, raw and bleeding from the relentless task of plucking thorns. The sandpaper grated against her skin, leaving her hands a shattered, bloody mess. Each breath she took felt like fire coursing through her lungs, a constant reminder of her torment.

As dawn broke, a light, sweet voice floated in from the master bedroom, smug and triumphant. “Declan, this bracelet really works. The dizziness is gone the moment I put it on.”

Declan’s laughter was gentle, a sound that once brought her comfort. “That’s good. Get some rest. I’ll stay with you.”

With a quiet resolve, she slipped the ring from her finger, a symbol of a past now lost. She made her way to the garden, where the bellflowers—once vibrant and abundant—met their end as she yanked them from the roots, one by one. She chopped them up, discarding their remnants like the memories that haunted her.

Afterward, she opened her laptop, logging into that cursed account, a dark pit filled with venomous hate comments. She scheduled a post to go live in one month, the words heavy with finality: By the time you’re reading this letter, I’ll probably be gone…

It took her a long, agonizing time to craft that “farewell letter.” Just as she typed the final period, the sound of a car coming to a halt echoed through the yard, jolting her from her thoughts. Declan rushed into the villa, urgency etched across his features.

“Why did you destroy the bellflowers, Sloane? I thought you loved them. I planted them for myself.”

There was something unsettling about his expression—pale, almost shaken, with a small streak of blood seeping through his sleeve, a grim reminder of the violence she had endured.

Sloane met his gaze with a calmness that belied the turmoil within her. She said nothing, simply shutting her laptop with a sharp snap, as if cutting off the last thread of her former life. “The roots were rotten. Might as well plant something else.”

At the mention of “something else,” Declan seemed to relax, just a fraction. “Alright. I’ll plant you something new.”