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When you burn a rose the ashes cling to your soul as charred fragments of insanity.
It takes seconds to walk away, your future stolen by ruthless vanity.
The scent is sweet, but the thorns cut deep.
Your lies are all that's left to keep.
A chance encounter crossed our paths.
I tried to kill a man in broad daylight, and he intervened.
I was taken to his home and persuaded to work for him instead.
It should be easy. It’s not.
I hold revenge in my heart like a burning ball of fury and he is just like them.
I shouldn’t crave his darkness, his whispers of ruin and his rough fingers dragging against my skin.
I shouldn’t desire the husky voice and soft kisses of a wicked man, but I do.
I am falling hard without a safety net and the only way out of this nightmare is to wake up.
But what happens when reality is cold and brittle under my touch and wicked delight is way more enticing?
What happens when the burning rose is me?
