Basil Hallward Dorian Gray Novels & Stories

He stood, bowed deeply, and tiptoed out of the basement like someone fleeing a slumbering beast. The basement door closed softly behind him, emitting a long, creaking groan before falling silent. The flame slowly steadied, bathing the doll in a warm amber glow. The doll remained still at the center of the altar. Its crimson robe shimmered with an unnatural gleam in the dimness, and the curve of its smile seemed to stretch wider. The macarons on the altar had somehow dried and blackened, as if all their moisture had been drained away. A black fuzz floated atop the cup of water, identical to the tiny hair that dangled from the doll's hairpin.

A mist begins to fall over Dorian and me. Dorian holds his breath, trying to move away from the mist, but it continues to fall over him. I try to avoid the mist, but there’s nowhere to go. His eyes begin to look around wildly. He starts sniffing the air. Then he stiffens and closes his eyes. It looks like he is trying to control himself. A strange scent begins to permeate through the air. My manacles fall to the floor. Suddenly, my vision begins to blur, and my chest begins to rise erratically. My body heat thrums, and my breasts begin to feel heavy as wetness collect in my panties. I shuffle my feet uncomfortably, which makes things worse. Dorian’s head snaps at the sound of my shuffling. H

and then again, this time a soft cry "Yes" His eyes seemed to blaze. "Then let it be" he whispered. His mouth crushed hers, hot and passionate. She felt herself swept high aloft, snug in his embrace. He kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot. Her toes touched the floor. Almost before she could draw breath, her gown was whisked from her shoulders. She could only watch as his clothes met the same end as hers, a forgotten pile on the rough cold floor. The light from the fire bathed him in pale, firelit glory. Though her cheeks flooded crimson, Betty could not help herself. Always before, she had hidden her face away, curious but almost desperately afraid to look. Now she could not help

Caelan carried me straight through the grand marble archway, ignoring the shocked gasps of the lower-ranking servant wolves and noble females fluttering about the grand hall. My brother, Bastian Crowmoor, was standing by the central pedestal, sipping spiced wine from a silver goblet alongside Dorian Wolfhart, the grand elder of the Whitlock bloodline. "Drop the theatrical routine, Caelan," Dorian said coldly, setting his goblet down on a velvet-covered table. His sharp blue eyes swept over my blood-stained skirt and disheveled hair. "She is a Whitlock heiress, not a wounded pup."

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.

As I was making my way to Prince Barlion's chambers through the dark halls lit with some candles, I cought sight of Dorian Great. Not wanting to pass by that nasty man, I rushed over to a corner and hid in the shadows. Dorian Great was walking in front of a young woman dressed as a handmaid. He had a smug look on his face that made me want to slap it right off. One look at the young woman behind him and I could tell that she was terrified. She looked pale as of the blood drained out of her face and her hands were trembling. They walked past me without noticing that they were being watched.

He looked like a butler out of a Victorian novel, his demeanor as stiff and polished as his attire. “Good evening, Ms. Hart,” he said with a polite nod. “Mr. Sinclair is waiting for you in the gallery. Please, follow me.” Elena followed the butler through the grand foyer, her eyes darting around the opulent interior. The walls were lined with artwork—pieces that ranged from classical to modern, all of them carrying a sense of darkness that seemed to echo Vincent’s own enigmatic persona. Everything about this place felt otherworldly, as if it existed outside of time, in a realm where shadows held secrets.

With a long sigh, Chelsea plopped down in a chair, pulled out her laptop, and began researching EvaLux Designs. While in his office, Dorian sat down and began contemplating. His mind brought him back to the night that he was drugged and that beautiful woman saved his life. The woman who made him feel like he was the only man in the world. The woman who made him feel like he had found the one for him. The woman who changed his view on love. But also the woman who left him like a thief in the night—the woman who has been making it hard for him to be with anyone else. Since her, he hasn't found any other woman remotely attractive or interesting in the way that he yearned for. Physical attractio

Dorian shrugged off his jacket and used it to wrench it open. Inside Three reels. One marked with a familiar name: “Vivienne Wrenleigh – March 7th.” Isolde snatched it out. But behind it was something else. A file. One page only. Not digital. Ink on parchment paper. Seared at the edges. She pulled it free and held it up. Her eyes froze on a single name. L.B. - Velvet Architect Laurent Blackthorn Her voice went hollow. “Dorian.” He turned. Saw the name. Went still.

he said softly. They took her through the house. Not a tour. A slow drawing of lines. A living room with a sofa made to swallow a body whole. A study with books that smelled like old coins and leather. A room with a wide mirror and a low bench that made her pulse skip for reasons she did not examine. A hallway with three doors at the end. Dorian stopped at the first and opened it. Inside, the light was low, the walls a dark gray that made the bed look like a promise. “My room,” he said. “You enter when invited.”