Thorn Among Roses

Thorn Among Roses

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WpMetadataNoticeNaposledy publikováno čtv, lis 28, 2019
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She is beauty, she is grace. She is a princess. Her maid, on the other hand, was not. A thorn that wanted nothing more than to be a Rose, just like her princess. -------------- "Common, the more you suppress it, the stronger it grows. Just tell her. What could go wrong?" Lynn rolled her eyes at Rose's silence. Rose laughed in a sarcastic tone, gaining the friends' attention. "Tell her what? That her less than elegant moments are something I will treasure, or that I will hopelessly follow her every request, no matter how idiotic? How she may see herself as someone less, but she is bigger in my eyes than anyone." -----------------------------
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#354
princesses
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Připoj se k největší komunitě vypravěčůZískej personalizovaná doporučení příběhů, ukládej si oblíbené do své knihovny a komentováním i hlasováním buduj komunitu.
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//Please note this story is under heavy construction! Read at your own risk.// If you look for perfection, you'll never be content. ~Leo Tolstoy . . . . . . . A flower is to be always beautiful lest it is cast away. A flower is to be innocent and pure. Delicate in nature, ever to bring squinting smiles to those around. A flower is perfect. Always perfect. She was the perfect embodiment of a flower. Her name, Iris. A thorn is sharp like a knight's blade. It inflicts pain and draws blood if one dares to get close. A thorn protects a flower from the wickedness of the world. A thorn is attached to the king, ever guarding. He was the perfect embodiment of a thorn. His name, Luca. She was an iris in no need of a thorn and he was a thorn in no need of a delicate iris. Thrust together by an arranged marriage, the unlikely pair, the thorn, and the flower must now find a way to co-inhabit in the same garden. Bracing the strength of the winter, will their love and companionship last for the spring season or will the cold betrayal of a parasitic orchid, the overflowing herbicide of lies and the perfect perfection of the Iris trample the delicate budding bloom of their affairs of the heart?

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