Blvck Roses Novels & Stories

Inside the bag, besides all the explosives that were carefully placed in there, I saw two roses crossed over each other, just lying there on top of everything. However, these weren't just your run of the mill roses that you could find in a bouquet or flower shop, no. These were elusive black roses. And they had been well taken care of during their time. The petals were still soft and smooth as I ran my fingers over them. They were also well preserved too. The steams were healthy and prickly, but also without their thorns. I had always admired them throughout my life and bought some whenever they ever popped up and stored them away.

Ada's manager wondered aloud worriedly. "I remember you like the gothic style, Ada. How about black roses?" Alyssa suggested with a grin. "Black roses?" Ada squealed in excitement. "We decorated the previous venue with ten tons of red roses. We don't have time to redecorate everything, but switching to Essagerian black roses would be easy." Ada's face was glowing. She had liked Alyssa's first event proposal, but this second one was her dream wedding. Black roses were symbols of mystery, desire, and possession. The symbolism was unique, cool, and romantic.

Stephanie yelled as she looked into the box. "W-what? What's wrong?" Khloe asked before she looked in? There was a rose, a single Rose, but it was unlike any she had ever seen before, it had black petals and was placed in a small puddle of blood. Another thing that was strange about this rose was that it was burning, but a very low burn like at any moment it would go out" And it stunk, real bad. So bad she had to take a step back. Stephanie lifted the rose from the box, "Are you crazy mother? You'll get burnt!" Khloe yelled horrified but was shocked when it didn't hurt her, however, half the petals turned to ash and disappeared into thin air,

Third POV Sebastian Blackwood adjusted his collar in the rearview mirror of his black SUV for the third time, smoothing the crisp white shirt beneath his dark blazer until every fold looked perfect. The bouquet of deep red roses rested on the passenger seat like a silent accusation, two dozen long-stemmed beauties, each petal flawless, wrapped in matte black tissue paper and tied with a wide silk ribbon the exact shade of midnight. He had chosen them himself that morning at the florist on Madison Avenue, the one with the old wooden sign and the woman behind the counter who always remembered his name. He had asked for the freshest, most perfect ones they had, the kind that looked like they ha

The stranger placed a single object flat onto the pristine wooden counter. Then, before Amora could even step forward, the figure spun around and glided out the front door, vanishing into the crowded street like a wisp of smoke. Amora’s heart hammered against her ribs. She walked slowly toward the edge of the counter, her breath hitching in her throat as she looked down at what had been left behind. Resting on the clean pine wood was a single, flawless rose. But the petals weren't red, pink, or white. They were a deep, velvet, midnight black. The stem was thick, covered in sharp, jagged thorns, and a single drop of dark, ink-like liquid clung to the leaf like a drop of poison.

I looked at the label and felt something warm and unexpected bloom in my chest. Château Rosaire. A small-batch red from a vineyard in the south of Casavera that produced only three thousand bottles a year and sold most of them before they left the estate. The label was simple, a hand-drawn rose on cream paper, and the wine itself was dark and velvety, tasting of blackberries and woodsmoke and the particular ache of a memory you didn't know you had until something brought it back.

The irony hit hard. As we drove further in, we stopped in front of the second villa. I stepped out and gaped—it was the most beautiful one of all. Painted soft white and pastel pink, with tall glass windows gleaming under the afternoon sun. Inside, the living room took my breath away. Gold and blush accents framed the walls, and the air smelled faintly of vanilla—my favorite scent. What a coincidence, I thought. A woman, probably In her early fifties, appeared from what looked like the kitchen. She smiled gently and spoke quietly with the assistant. I barely listened, too overwhelmed to focus on their conversation.

“While you were away. Lord Rustyn. He brought something from Lady Celia and the queen.” My jaw tightens. But my eyes are on the roses. Even in winter, the cursed things bloom. Blue roses that climb the black stone walls, their petals sharp against the frost. They wither and bloom in ghostly cycles, yet never touch the ground. Always vanishing midair, leaving behind only that sweet and rotten scent. It clings to your throat, making you feel the misery etched deep within it. “Rogues?” I ask, eyes narrowing on a cluster of petals curling into vapor.