Ghost Roses Novels & Stories

She started wagging her tail and jumping up and down. I swear I just heard her say 'Mate' but that's impossible. Second chance mates didn't exist, and we just rejected our Goddess given mate. But then, the most amazing smell hit me, even more mouthwatering than when I smelled Mason. It smelled like Whiskey and Chocolate. That mixture was breath taking. Aunt Tara noticed me sniffing the air. "Alex, what's wrong?" She asks. As soon as her last word left her mouth, he door slammed open with such force, I thought for sure it was going to fall off the henges. What I saw in front of me left me speechless. A man in his twenties, 6'11, covered in tattos with short kept black hair, and the most beaut

It was such a beautiful moment that when I went down on one knee, I actually shed a tear! I grabbed the bouquet of the black roses from my side and smiled evilly. The black rose is a mysterious bloom that can convey many meanings. The color black has often been synonymous with death and mourning and is usually used at funerals. But black roses do have more meaning as well. They can stand for the beginning of new things and major changes. Dear darlo, I assure you that nightmares will become your reality. It will dance in front of you and with you constantly. It will also sing a lullaby for you in your sleep. It will never leave you alone.

“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.

String lights cascaded above them, adding to the enchantment. Her gaze drifted downward, and her breath caught. The ground was a carpet of roses—red, white, and pink—arranged in a heart-shaped pattern so intricate it seemed almost unreal. Among the petals, candles flickered softly, their golden glow illuminating the arrangement with an ethereal warmth.

“Are you serious?” “Not as serious as Lover Boy is!” She steps aside. Right on cue, several men and women in uniform march in carrying vases of blood red roses, a large box tied with velvet ribbon, and yet another prenatal-packed smoothie with an itemized label of every ingredient slapped on the side. Okay. I might be enjoying the attention a little bit. Just the teensiest, tiniest little bit. “How many roses this time?” Hazel lets out a low whistle as she does a quick count. “Four dozen. And the expensive kind. Don’t these last a whole year?”

Her feet were in heels, her fingers in gloves, no skin was left available to the ghost! Taking in the wicked decorations that she'd spent so much time setting up, Geneva lifted the skirt of her ball gown-like wedding gown and walked to the center of the living room. She tried her best to redo the crazy pattern that she made on the floor with the already lit scented candles and flower petals of various colours. The more she tried, the worse it became and her heels that kept on crushing the flowers were no joy. Feeling dejected, she wondered why she had bought those rubbish and wasted her time on them. Ah, because she was trying to suck up to a certain someone and avoid death.

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,

I clutched the roses tighter, their thorns pricking through the tissue, a sharp reminder of the present. Reaching the willow, I paused. Shay's tombstone stood there, granite solid and unyielding, his name carved deep: *Shay Harlan*. Below, the epitaph I'd chosen: *Beloved seeker of truth, forever inspiring.* Moss edged the base, and fallen leaves scattered around like confetti from a somber party. I knelt, the ground cool and uneven beneath my knees, and placed the roses at the foot of the stone. "From a memory to a memory," I whispered, arranging them carefully. They looked right there, crimson against the gray, a loving tribute to what we'd had.

My pulse stopped. Gabriel. He stepped out before my mind could fully catch up. The door opened with smooth mechanical precision, and his tall frame emerged—dark slacks, a charcoal coat, black shirt open at the collar. Effortless, lethal elegance. And in his hand— a bouquet. Not a regular one. Not even high-end florist expensive. These were Ecuadorian black roses, velvety, impossibly dark, accented with deep wine-red blooms and silver-tipped leaves. The kind only sold through private auctions. The kind billionaires used when money wasn’t the message—intent was.

And the blush that was barely receding was back again. "I'm not a pretty little flower, Roses are as pretty as they are dangerous." He scoffed, standing up and even from where he was standing, I could see that he'll tower over me. He straightened out his suit jacket. Eyes boring into mine. "The only dangerous roses are those with thorns Rose, and you my dear, you have no thorns. You're a pretty little flower, a harmless little flower." He walked towards me till he was standing right Infront of me, towering over me as expected, I craned my neck just too look at him. "I'll be taking my leave now pretty flower, say hi to Mr. Potter for me."