Dorian Gray Henry Wotton Novels & Stories

“Your pet seems much more agreeable, Damien. You will have to share your secrets with me.” Damien hummed but didn’t otherwise answer. Henry inched closer to me. As he did, I could tell from the sheen in his eyes and the smell of liquor on his breath, that he was drunk. “Yours is beautiful too,” Henry said. “But it’s more than beauty that tempted you, Damien, wasn’t it? There have been so many other beautiful ones.” Henry’s eyes never left me. “Her blood must be divine, to make you want to drink again.”

His mother baked him a cake in their apartment, her hands flour-dusted, her eyes shining with pride. Henry smiled, grateful, though something inside him still ached. The Alpha’s silence. Adrian’s ever-present. The weight of exile that not even candles and frosting could erase. But just before dusk, a knock sounded at the door. Henry frowned, wiping his hands. He wasn’t expecting anyone. When he opened it, the air itself seemed to shift. Damien Dowell stood there. Tall, immaculately dressed, his presence radiating wealth and authority. His eyes—piercing—rested on Henry as though he had been searching for him his whole life.

Ann muttered disgruntledly, obviously thinking the same thoughts as Genie. “Who cares?” Henry chuckled. “She can turn those big baby blues on me any time she likes.” “Over my dead body, mister,” Ann snorted. “I wouldn't say that too loudly, if I were you, Ann,” Phoenix remarked, a sardonic edge to his voice. “Women like Whitney won’t stop at murder to get any man they wanted.” “I believe you,” Ann returned sourly. “Shut up, you two,” Henry muttered. “She's coming over here.”

She spelled it out like she was soothing a toddler about to throw blocks at the wall. And the spoiler? It didn’t work. “How can I calm down when my FUCKING portraits are gone?!” I roared. And then, a throat was cleared. Both Alexandra and I turned toward the door. And there he was—Dorian, standing there like a guilty puppy. His hands raised behind his head, tugging at his bandage like it was a crown of thorns. And when he spoke… oh, dear God. “As for the portraits,” he said, in a tone too casual for a funeral. “So sad I noticed the ones of us weren’t there. So… I got rid of yours, Sweetheart.”

Weston’s cold voice contained undisguised mockery. Henry’s face immediately fell. The leisured look on his face was gone and a hint of hostility flashed in his eyes. This seemingly ethereal man in a wheelchair possessed methods and cruelty that struck fear in the entire city of Ahn. Only Weston could openly take a jab at him on where it hurt. Henry stopped and regained his usual indifference. He looked at Weston. “There’s something I wanted to ask you.” “Spill.” “You spoil and pamper Gwen so much, so why did you suddenly go off and marry another woman?”

"Henry's already working the room." I nodded absently, my attention still focused on the rippling water. "Make sure he's discreet. I don't want my presence known yet." Zack grinned. "That's why we're sitting out here by the pond instead of inside with all the important people, right?" I shot him a warning glance, but he was already moving away, intercepting Henry Stewart near the bar. Henry was a mid-ranking wolf from one of the allied packs – not particularly powerful but well-connected socially. His light brown hair and friendly features made him approachable, and his nervous energy made him easy to manipulate.

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

To indicate no soul could push her away nor complain about our proximity. Smirking, I held her waist, gaining a long-lost solace. The moment was better than my imagination. “Didn’t want confirmation on that.” Dorian rolled his eyes, though the warmth in his expression was undeniable. “Fine, fine. Let’s have dinner. I’m starving.” “Dorian!” Kristine scolded, though she was smiling. “What?” “Zayne is in this mansion as the son-in-law. MY husband. Speak more politely, in fact let him walk first. Show some respect.”

He was leaning casually against the door now, a crooked grin on his face. “Does your own smell bother you?” he asked flatly. “If I were you, I wouldn’t drink anything that destroys my dignity.” “Cut the crap, Dorian.” He crossed his arms over his chest and simply stood there, calm and observant like a statue carved to perfection. His silver hair gleamed under the light, and those dark violet eyes scanned me slowly. “Well, well… looks like our ‘Golden Prince’ has finally run out of options,” Dorian murmured. His voice was smooth, but there was a faint note of victory in it. “You must be pretty desperate right now.”

Before Gina realized it, she and Mr. Cornwell were deep in conversation with Henry inputting something every now and then. She had learned he was a fashion icon for one of the leading designers in the country, and he was currently on the lookout for new models. Apparently, he was at the party to scout for anyone who seemed like they fit the type, and she found herself enthralled by his stories. For the first time since she arrived the party, she was actually holding a conversation with someone. Not just being by her husband's side while they discussed politics and things she didn't know about.