Audiobook The Picture Of Dorian Gray Novels & Stories

I murmured, although I wasn't even sure if I believed it. I stood up and made my way to the library as I’d seen Dorian take that path earlier, his broad shoulders stiff with irritation, and something told me he’d sought solace among the endless shelves of books. He had that air about him, stoic, intellectual, a man who found peace in silence and knowledge. I pushed the heavy double doors open, my heart racing. The library was vast and dimly lit, the scent of old paper and leather filling the air. It was eerily quiet, except for the faint rustling of pages.

It was a face that held the promise of a future yet to be unraveled. Magnus was gone for the day with the elders, and Orla was at the community building, so I had the house to myself. We were not allowed books of fiction in our communal library. I scanned the leather spines and pulled one off the shelf, The Picture of Dorian Gray by an author Oscar Wilde. I settled into my Father's oversized leather chair and opened the book on his desk. As I delve into the pages, I find myself captivated by a foreign world. The characters' complexities and struggles resonate deeply, reflecting parts of my inner thoughts and emotions.

He has not broken me yet. We sit in a Parisian café, him closing his eyes to inhale the rich scents of mochas and espressos and croissants as he pauses from his novel. It is The Picture of Dorian Gray, one of his favorites, and like the titular character, he is unchanging. After all these years, that self-same smirk still burns on his face. I take a slow sip of my white mocha confection, too sweet for my liking, and study him: that visage too cruel to be handsome, the cutting eyes like chips of glass. A predatory quirk of the lip. His fangs may be retracted, but he is still a vampire, immortal, midnight blood black as sin, his skin pale as bone.

His eyes are dark, and I can see that he is trying to contain his wolf. “SCARLET I said get your bag NOW, do not make me repeat myself again.” Dorian’s eyes are wild, and he is pacing. “AHEM.” Everyone is startled by the voice coming from the other side of the car, we had all been paying attention to the drama in front of us. Turning I can see that Theo is standing there, like Caleb his eyes are dark, and he is barely hanging onto his ability to talk normally. “If I might have a moment of your time Scarlet, I think there is some information that you may find useful.” Theo thumps down a rather old and yellowing leather-bound book on the top of the car.

"Oh, sorry pun." He frowned. "Awful." He slowly stood up, rubbing his belly. I smiled dryly, turning my attention back to the shelf of novels, my eyes sparkling with excitement. I picked out a book, and examined it with curiosity, deep down I knew that I would love to immerse myself in this book. "The Picture of Dorian Gray," He read the title, sounding almost surprised. "Didn't know you were into that dark romantic literature." I smirked. "There's so much you don't know about me, Ryan."

He shook her from his mind and pushed open the doors to the study. The rug-lined room was bigger than B’s above-garage apartment. Floor to ceiling bookshelves dampened any noise B might made in his whiskey search. There didn’t seem to be a single inch of space on any one of the shelves. Books of all colors, textures, and sizes were packed together. In front of the book spines sat hundreds of little treasures–seashells, pocket watches, glass figurines, and carvings of creatures. So many creatures. B let his fingers drift over the book spines: The Picture of Dorian Gray. The Catcher in the Rye. The Odyssey. Brave New World. The Call of the Wild. White Noise. So many stories he’d never read and

“And I refuse to live like this. And I refuse to let you live like this.” “Please…” I whispered, my voice broken. “Give me a chance. Let me prove that we can be different.” He smiled, a sad and beautiful smile I had never seen before. “Maybe in another life,” he whispered. “A life where we meet as whole people, not as these broken shadows we’ve become.” The gunshot echoed through the room, a final and absolute sound that seemed to stop time itself. Dorian’s body fell to the floor with a dull thud, the book of spells slipping from his open hand. Blood and brain matter splattered the walls, the pages of the book, my face.

The fire in Amalia’s hearth had burned low, throwing amber light across the carved beams. Shadows curled in the corners of the room, heavy with the scent of pine and smoke. Dorian sat at the edge of the long bench, shoulders hunched, his hands clasped so tight together it looked as if he were holding back the world.

CHAPTER 8 The Son Who Forgot His Mother’s Voice POV: Elara The triumph from the boardroom felt like a cold, thin sheet of ice. It looked solid, but I was falling through it. I walked toward the family wing, my lungs rattling with every step. I didn't need a boardroom to feel powerful; I needed my son to look at me without that glint of predatory judgment. I found Arlo in the library, surrounded by old pack scrolls. He was trying to read the ancient Runes, his small brow furrowed in frustration.

Roydo lowered his eyes fearfully. “My father will have my tongue if he hears that.” He said. “He won’t hear it, I promise. But I’m curious to know why you think so? I’ve been meaning to ask.” “It was something I stumbled upon on day in the library,” he said eagerly. “I was in the old section, that part filled with dust covered scrolls that are rarely read. Well I happened to find a a scroll, the First Gray, you know it right?” Donton nodded. “Said to be written by Mortava herself.”