Burnt Roses Novels & Stories

Rosalie spent the next two days in the hospital. Her left hand was swathed in gauze, the severe burns beneath sending sharp pulses of pain through her with every movement, forcing her to stay still and cautious. Meanwhile, Brandon was swamped with the fallout from the press conference. He didn't have time to visit, so he sent her bouquets—roses and baby's breath, the same flowers she had loved back in college. But the truth was, she had only ever liked them because Brandon liked them. And Brandon's preference? That came from Nina, who always wore the scent of roses.

I looked at the photo of Vanessa in the fire. I crushed the rose in my hand. The thorns cut my skin.

Callan was a fierce and domineering man who was just silenced by his sweet mother. “If you need any help figuring things out, my coven and I would be honoured to help you, Ayla.” “Thank you, Rosie, I might take you up on that.” I smiled but quickly looked across the room to Callan, who was still watching Rosie carefully. Rosie stood up and took something out of her jacket pocket; she placed a small white bundle in her mouth and bit down. She moved her arm across the front of her body as smoke seemed to flow from her hand, wrapping around her like a vaporous blanket. I stood up, afraid that Rosie was about to self-ignite, when a bright light flashed in the room, making me look away to shield

The waterfall roared louder than usual, but a rancid smell overpowered the usual scent of roses. Rogues were waiting for her, not Xavier. One of them was the unkempt man from the market. Rose readied herself, then she felt him. Xavier, running flat out, drawn by the bond. He burst into the clearing, eyes blazing. “Rose, run!” “No, we fight together.” Then the wild roses moved like a living thing. They had always grown thick here, but tonight they came alive. Vines wrapped her ankles, thorns gentle against her skin, petals brushing her face.

A drop of tear landed on the back of my hand. I ignored it and made a rose appear out of thin air just like a magician. "When we first started dating, you were nothing but a bouncer. The owner's enemies came looking for trouble. On Valentin's Day, you were severely injured and covered in blood. I was worried sick. I cried helplessly as I looked at your wounds. But what did you do? You pulled out a rose that you had been hiding, and it was covered in blood." Thomas chuckled as he took the rose from me.

Alas, it was Damian Blackwood. His gaze hit me like a blow, a reminder that his eyes were the one pair that were not supposed to be seeing this. His hair was rumpled and the reek of bourbon hung about him even from a distance-though I could not tell if it was because he really did smell like that or because I had become so used to him smelling like that that my brain associated it with him. His eyes-red-circled and blazing-flamed with a fury I hadn't seen in years.

The same ones that Matthew promised would live for his love for me. What a joke. From the tool shed, I took a can of gasoline and poured it, bucket after bucket, over the rose bushes. “Mrs. Spark, what are you doing!” The gardener ran toward me in alarm. “Burn them,” I said calmly. “But Mr. Spark had planted them himself!” “I said burn it.” The gardener didn’t dare stop me and stepped back, trembling. I lit the lighter and tossed it into the rose bushes. Flames leapt up instantly; crimson petals writhed in the fire, blackened, and crumbled into ash.

City A, 15 years ago, in a dilapidated house, the firelight was slowly spearing to every corner. The fire made a crackling, crackling, ticking sound that echoed in the stillness of the night. Suddenly, the fire flared up violently. It engulfed everything it passed through. In that deadly fire, the image of a rose playing in the sea of ​​​​fire slowly appeared. It shone extremely brightly and then began to fade to ashes. That rose was like his heart. Since that day, his heart had died, left only the animosity.

The hall was silent, except for Roses’ soft whimpers. Nightbane’s gaze never left me. His wolf—weak, dyin, still managed to claw through his eyes, burning red like a wound that refused to heal. “Fel,” he breathed. Just one word, but it shattered the walls I’d built. I staggered to my feet, clutching Roses. “What are you doing here?” My voice was raw, breaking. I handed Roses to my mother and clutched my chest, “You’re not supposed to—”

A violent, stinging itch erupted across her hand, rapidly turning into a blinding, white-hot burning sensation. Rosalie gasped, the training dagger slipping from her numb fingers and clattering uselessly into the dirt. "What's wrong?" Garrett asked, his brow furrowing as he stepped forward. "Your grip was loose." "I..." Rosalie stammered, her voice small and trembling as the burning sensation crawled up her wrist like liquid fire. She looked down at her right hand. Her palm was flushing a violent, angry red, tiny blisters rapidly bubbling up across her skin. The muscles in her fingers were locking up, cramping so violently she couldn't even close her hand into a fist. "It... it burns."