Beware The Thorns | MYG PJM JJK

Roses Are Red, Violence Breeds Power

"Beware the thorns, little sister."

The warning comes a second too late—blood wells at the tip of your finger in the wake of a pricking lance. You scrutinize the ruby droplet, pressing your lips into a thin line as it glistens in the low light coming in through the broken glass roof of the solarium.

It would be easy to blame the rose, but you should have known—should have been more mindful of the monster you knew was lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce or, in this case, startle you.

You became aware of his presence, which could have been hours ago at this point—silently watching you from the murk clinging to the edges of the ruined building. It's one of his favorite pastimes, you're certain; stalking you, watching you...hunting you.

"You're an asshole," you mumble, brushing your finger off on the dark fabric of your skirt before resuming the pruning of the rose bush. Greenery falls around you, mixing with the scatter of loose, velvety petals already collected at your feet. "And I'm not your little sister. I'm older than you."

The rose garden you've managed to cultivate in the ancient, abandoned conservatory on the backside of your father's estate is your secret pride and joy. A sanctuary all your own—even if some of the glass panes are missing and the tiles underfoot are grown through with tree roots. That is, unless one of your brothers decides to darken its doorway, as Jimin is doing now.

"You may be older than me, but you're not bigger than me. Pretty sure that makes you little."

"Go away, Jimin." You huff a sigh as you kick at the growing pile of bramble at your feet and continue on by grabbing the next offending snarl of weeds and vines that are twisting their way through the lattice where your roses are trying to flourish.

Some of the beautiful vermillion flowers need to be sacrificed if you have any hope of genuinely freeing them from the mess crowding the space, so you try not to wince as more petals shower when you tug and pull. There is just too much dark growth winding its way through the thorns and stalks of the precious, pillowy rose blossoms to help it.

This haunting treasure was once your mother's haven, though it quickly fell into ruin after her death. You were young when she died, barely five. Not quite old enough to remember much, but you like to think you can still feel her warmth sometimes, despite the permanent chill that seems to have a grasping hold on the weed-choked solarium.

Hands land on your waist and draw you up short. Your hands shake where one holds the pruning sheers and the other lightly clasps a thick, gnarled vine. "Trembling for me, little sister?"

The way he twists that term of endearment should make your stomach roil. It should make you flinch and shy away from his touch because it's dirty. Jimin is your brother. You should be trembling in disgust.

Yet...

Yet you can't help the shiver that races up your spine, which has absolutely nothing to do with revulsion. It's wrong. You know it's wrong. But your body leans back into his without your permission. It welcomes the way his fingers explore the curves of your hips and the ghost of his breath coating the back of your neck.

You shudder, allowing yourself to indulge for just a second longer before forcefully jerking from his grip, even if it does send you right into the sharp kiss of the rose bush. Thorns prick at your bare thighs and knees as you shuffle further until you can turn to face Jimin.

The shrubbery rips at your suit skirt, littering the navy and mocha tweed knit with numerous thread snags, but you couldn't care less. The skirt is replaceable. Your sanity, however; is not.