Basil Hallward Dorian Gray Novels & Stories

He started to chuckle. A low, lifeless chuckle that made my spine shingle. Shaking his head, he said, "You think you're so clever." I quieted myself. He leaned in then, his breath warm against my flesh. Aurora, but, you forget; I know you too. And the power in the room changed exactly like that. Since for the first time in weeks... Dorian was not merely breaking apart. He was starting to reconstruct himself. I failed to fall asleep that evening. Something about the way Dorian had stared at me. It was not only loss now. It turned out to be darker. Something dangerous. I heard my phone ding 2:00 AM. a declaration. Not from an unidentified number this time, though.

He didn’t even spare me a glance ‘How cold’ I gulped and quickly followed behind him. We walked into the building which was even more intimidating Black marble floors, high ceilings. Everything looked expensive… but lifeless. Our footsteps echoed as we walked, and all I could think about was how I would escape. Yes, I had planned to escape but only after I had gained understanding of the building. Suddenly Dorian stopped, causing me to almost bump into him. “Pen.” He called. His voice echoed throughout the room. Immediately, an elderly woman in her late fifties walked in

She leaned back in her chair, remaining silent as the animal-like immortal cracked his neck, stretching in his seat. “You look tired; Ill take you back to the basement.” Dorian shrugged, carefully rising from his chair as he stretched, lightly cracking his back. The princesses shoulders deflated as she slowly rose back to her feet, nodding obediently as he gripped a hold of her arm, almost gently pulling her back towards the kitchen door. She followed him to a large black door, hesitating as he released his hold on her arm, his animalistic frame quickly descending into the darkness. Her pulse increasing as she watched his form fade into the depths, the sight spiking her fear. He had kept her

Lord Henry felt as if he could hear Basil Hallward's heart beating, and wondered what was coming. "The story is simply this," said the painter after some time. "Two months ago I went to a crush at Lady Brandon's. You know we poor artists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to remind the public that we are not savages. With an evening coat and a white tie, as you told me once, anybody, even a stock-broker, can gain a reputation for being civilized. Well, after I had been in the room about ten minutes, talking to huge overdressed dowagers and tedious academicians, I suddenly became conscious that some one was looking at me. I turned half-way round and saw Dorian Gray for

CHAPTER 6 The Stains We Can’t Wash Away POV: Elara The master bathroom was a sanctuary of white Carrara marble and heated floors; a cold, beautiful tomb. I leaned over the sink, my knuckles white as I gripped the edge. The "Voice" in the hallway was a distant rumble now, but my own body was screaming. A wet, rattling cough tore through my chest. I barely made it to the basin before the metallic heat overflowed.

As I entered the bathroom, the smile on my face faded. I dropped the sheets to the ground as soon as I shut the door and went to the large mirror, only to find h*ckeys all over my body. "Crazy," I said, looking at my body, which had h*ckeys on my neck, breasts, and legs. "Didn't he have dinner?" I said, indicating Damien, given that I appeared to be his dinner last night instead. Afterwards, I exited the bathroom wearing the clothes he had provided for me. It was a long black gown with a bad b*tch vibe to it. It was worn with new black heels, a hat, gloves, and diamond earrings. Everything was black, from head to toe. "Is black his favorite color or something...? ”

He clears his throat, the sound too loud in the quiet hall. "Does anyone have any questions regarding the theme of vanity?" Adrian asks, his voice steady, betraying none of the physical discomfort he is enduring. A girl in the third row stands up, adjusting her glasses. "Professor, do you think Wilde intended the portrait to represent the subconscious mind?" Adrian nods, grateful for the distraction. "An excellent interpretation. The portrait serves as a mirror to Dorian's soul, yes. It captures the moral decay that his physical beauty hides." He answers politely, keeping the discussion academic, safe. He avoids looking at the back row, but he can feel Ryder’s eyes on him, a burning gaze tha

The lecture hall in Hawthorne Hall smelled of old wood, chalk dust, and the faint metallic tang of rain blowing in through the half-open windows. Professor Julian Hale stood at the podium, his deep voice carrying effortlessly across the tiered seats as he dissected the moral ambiguities in The Picture of Dorian Gray. Late-afternoon light slanted through the tall windows, catching on the silver at his temples and the crisp lines of his navy button-down. At twenty-eight, Julian was one of the youngest tenured literature professors at the university, known for his rigorous seminars and the quiet intensity that made students lean forward in their seats. He wasn’t flashy. No dramatic gestures.

The second I stepped in, the world outside vanished. Dorian ordered drinks immediately, tossing his card to the bartender like he owned the place. “To Hailey,” he toasted, “soon to be Mrs. Blackwood, the woman too hot for hell.” I laughed, clinking my glass against his. “Cheers to bad decisions.” We danced, we laughed. For the first time in weeks, I felt something close to freedom. Lila swayed beside me, hair sticking to her forehead, her laughter bright and wild. I felt a prickling on my skin. Like someone was watching me.

“I fear war is upon us.” “We just don't know what game they are playing.” He replied. What is Dorian Gray of Grimshade pack up to?