Rotten Roses Novels & Stories

Here's to alcohol, the rose-colored glasses of life. ✾ The place behind the counter looked very much like it really belongs to Verdant. There were various shelves full of jars that had different colored liquids inside. Some had roots, leaves, as well as some things that I didn’t bother identifying. For some reason, my wolf had told me it was better that I didn’t know. There were barrels on either side of the counter, their spigot dripping a sticky brown liquid whose stench made me crinkle my nose. Furrowing my brows, I tried leaning over the counter, checking if there was something that I could at least give Auster, maybe even some water.

"My friend, Zoya I hope you liked the roses. It smells refreshing, isn't it? These roses are plucked from a little garden in the graveyard behind my house. How Ironic! Death and Life are in the same place." Zoya gulped as her smile faded and looked at the roses. She continues reading, "Still, my roses keep blooming every day without any fear you know why, because no matter what you have gone through, from where you have born and how much worst your past is, Love stands strong in every situation.Just like a lotus in the mud. But you know, the smell of these roses remains only for a while. Once the rose starts drying out, its smell starts fading away, its color starts changing and then one day

I pressed my palms together and the earth cracked open behind me. From the soil, some roses erupted with a sickly red glow. Each of them was shaped like a beast with their roots forming like legs and their bark splitting into mouths filled with rows of sharp teeth. Their movements were jerky while wet sounds echoed as they stretched for the first time. The assassins’ eyes widened in horror. "What are those!?" I smiled faintly. "Magic roses. They need nourishment." I pointed toward the assassins and said to the roses. "Feed."

Giant, deep red, glowing roses. I thrashed, trying to pull myself up, but the damn things had a grip like iron. Every time I moved an inch, they sprawled higher, coiling tighter, dragging me deeper into their grasp. Their petals looked soft, almost beautiful—until I saw the teeth hidden beneath them, snapping dangerously close to my skin. "That woman said the fae world isn't a joke!" I growled, struggling harder. "But she failed to mention the motherfucking sea of carnivorous roses!"

372 Rosa’s POV A bouquet arrived for me in the late afternoon, just as I was finishing a meeting with the wedding planner. At first glance, it looked elegant—deep crimson roses wrapped in black silk, tied with a golden ribbon. The kind of thing a secret admirer would send, the kind of thing that might have made me smile. But the moment I touched the petals, a chill ran through me. They were dead. The flowers had withered, their edges crisp and curled, their color darkened like dried blood.

“Numbers. Dates. Nothing I understood.” “Figures.” He sighed. “Come on, walk with me before you hyperventilate.” *** The corridor lights were dimmed for the night, throwing long shadows along tapestried walls. Alonso matched her steps; his shoulder brushed hers, deliberate. “You don’t strike me as the timid type,” he said. “Because I didn’t faint?” “Because your eyes are on fire.” She blinked. “Allergies.” He chuckled, genuine, warm enough to thaw the winter in her bones. Dangerous warmth.

A looked crossed his eyes,but it went away as quickly as it came, and soon he was looking at me amused again. "Of course, I didn't anticipate finding raunchy books in a sweet girl's bag, you're definitely right. Noted, I'm never doing that again." I scowled and he smirked. "So Rosie?" He asked, I couldn't help it, I rolled my eyes at that, rubbing at my temples. "No, my name's Rosette, not Rosie. That's childish." "Okay, so Rose. Well that's a pretty name for a very pretty girl, as cliché as it sounds, it's the truth, you're a pretty little flower." And the blush that was barely receding was back again.

The house had a RENT TO OWN sign out front with a phone number on it. Katie carefully held the Rosarium Glass in both hands, stroking the multicolored stained roses one by one now with her right thumb, tilting it as she went, warming the etched pieces of color with her touch. The surface of the glass swirled as if it were liquid, glowing like liquid mercury illuminated by the last scattering light of the sun’s rays. The air shimmered—the smell of roses came on the breeze. They stood surrounding her in a half-circle in the field of rippling cattails and grass.

“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.