Red Rose With Thorns Novels & Stories

I held my breath, breaking out in sweat as his proximity made fear spread through my now shivering frame. "You see... The Black Rose is a bad crowd to stick with. They'll lead you to your death. As a friend and a man who's insanely attracted to you... I advise you to cut all ties with them." His smile remained on his face, his voice still the same low, soft lilt it had been since he started speaking. Yet... There seemed to be venom in every syllable, burning through my skin like acid, making my heart pound painfully against my chest. I was afraid. This man... there was something about him, something sinister. He was going to hurt me. He wanted to hurt me.

Nikolaus POV: “It looks so pure.” The softness of her voice was almost breathless, her little fingers hovered over the white rose, she was drawn to it. “Nothing is truly pure,” I muttered and gently nudged her hand away, reaching for the rose myself. The thorn bit into my skin,sharp, quick, bleeding,but I didn’t flinch. With my fingers immediately closing around the stem, a thorn pierced my skin enough to draw blood. Snapping and getting rid of the thorns, I handed the rose to her.

The smoke, the fire, the lies—none of it mattered when he looked at her like that. His fingers brushed her cheek, slow and reverent. “I tried to stay away from you,” he said. “But you didn’t.” Their lips met in a crash of heat and confusion, need and fury. Her hands tangled in his hair. His mouth was urgent, devouring, worshipping. The kiss deepened, wild and consuming, like the fire roaring through the mansion. He pinned her against the wall, his hands exploring every inch of her with desperate intensity. She gasped as he kissed down her neck, her collarbone, pushing the fabric of her maid’s uniform aside like it offended him. Their breaths mingled in a haze of lust and smoke.

It was just a simple garden with many rose bushes. I stared at the red flower resting on the bedside table. I picked it up and brought it to my nose. It was intoxicatingly aromatic. A sense of pleasure rushed over me, followed by a sinking feeling of guilt. Maybe he got mad because I picked his rose. Maybe that rose garden was a special place for him, like a sanctuary, and he didn’t like people intruding. I understood that feeling all too well. There were also aspects of my life where I refused to let people in. Even with those close to me, like Jenny and Gian. Some things were just best kept a secret.

She placed it in my hand. "Repeat after me." "I leave my old loyalties at the door." I repeated her. "I will hold what is beautiful even when it bleeds me." I repeated that too. She smiled. "Now squeeze." I looked at the thorns, then I closed my hand. One thorn drove into my palm. Then another. Warm blood slid between my fingers and fell onto the stone. I waited. Nothing changed. I was still me. Joanna took the rose from my hand.

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.

I held the stem attached to the flower tightly, luckily there were no thorns to pierce through my skin. I opened the drawer and put it with the other yellow rose, but today it was red. Orion had been leaving a flower on the table next to my bed every day with a sorry since I stopped talking to him. The blood moon was only 5 days away and we had no progress so far. A knock on the door startled me before I could respond the door burst open and Bernadette stood in front of me.

However, some connections would eventually find their way back, no matter how many twists and turns it took. The flower shop by the roadside was selling red roses. The rose’s thorns had finally pricked the person they were meant to prick. My time to bloom had only just begun. (The End)

he muttered, pulling back suddenly. A drop of blood welled on his fingertip where a thorn had pricked him. "Let me see," I fretted, taking his hand. "It's nothing," he smiled. "Red roses are tougher than white moonpetals. Roses are meant to have thorns; it's not their fault if they prick unwary wolves." Our eyes met, and I understood his deeper meaning. My defenses weren't flaws but part of who I was. And he accepted them—accepted me—completely.

He put it on the back seat and glanced at the light through the window. He put his hand on the wheel. It suddenly tingled. His brow furrowed as he opened his left hand. There were rose thorns between his index and middle fingers. They must have gone into his palm when he broke the roses. He blandly removed them, humming happily, and then started the car to leave. The red rose was the symbol of passionate and loyal love. So how could he let the roses just stay there?