Dorian Gray Henry Wotton Novels & Stories

In front of him stood a sickly-looking man, dressed in a dull white suit, unpleasant no matter how you looked at him. The man smirked and pointed at Lyra. "Cousin, is this your new girlfriend?" Lyra furrowed her brows, instinctively forming a negative impression of the man. Ronan smirked and raised an eyebrow. "This lady is my wife." Upon hearing this, the man visibly flinched, but he quickly regained composure and smiled at Lyra. "So, you're my cousin's wife. I'm Dorian Ashford." Lyra nodded politely. "Hello."

"I remember that. Hector was so angry. He said if Dorian ever did something that stupid again, he would finish the job himself." "They argued for an hour. Dorian just sat there with his leg in a cast, grinning like an idiot." "He said the view from the bottom of the cliff was worth it." "It was not worth it. The view was terrible. He just did not want to admit he was wrong." I found myself smiling. Just a little. "He sounds like a stubborn man." "He is a bastard," Grayson said. "But he is a tough bastard. He will get through this."

​And standing near the front, basking in the hollow praise of the crowd, was Dorian Thorn. ​He wore a tailored white tunic embroidered with silver thread, a self-satisfied grin plastered across his face as he raised a glass of wine to toast the assembly. ​I crouched quietly in the shadows of the balcony, my ears picking up snippets of conversation drifting up from the nobles gathered just below my vantage point. ​"It is truly a magnificent day," a bloated noble lord murmured to his companion, swirling his drink. "Ridding the Vane lineage of that pathetic cripple Ronan was the best thing Dorian could have done. A broken mana core is a stain on noble blood."

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.

The air was thick with the smell of damp earth and something else—something metallic. Inside, rows of stone coffins lined the walls, their surfaces etched with the names of Ashworth ancestors. But it wasn’t the coffins that drew Elliot’s attention. It was the figure slumped in the corner. Henry. The butler’s body was propped against the wall, his head tilted at an unnatural angle. His eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling. A bloody gash stretched across his chest, soaking his pristine shirt. Emma let out a strangled gasp, and Elliot stepped forward, his pulse pounding in his ears.

Men in black suits poured out. And then, the figure from my nightmares stepped out of the center vehicle. Gavin Whitestone. He was thinner, his black coat hanging off his frame, his face pale and haggard. But it did nothing to diminish the suffocating pressure of his presence. His eyes locked onto Dorian's hand on my waist, burning with a world-ending madness. "Let her go." Gavin's voice was a terrifying rasp. Dorian didn't let go. He pulled me behind him, his eyes meeting Gavin's not with fear, but with the wariness of a rival predator.

His head was down castled so I was unable to see his face but the rest, I could clearly see. He has grown thinner and his skin was covered with wounds painted with dried blood. I can tell that they still fed him, which explains why he still managed to stay alive. "My Queen." Sir Hunder called out, forcing my eyes over to him. Sir Hunder glanced at Dorian but didn't say a word. There was a look of understanding in his eyes, like he had always known what had truly happened to Dorian Great. Swallowing past a thick lump, I walked away from Dorian's cell and focused on what Sir Hunder had wanted to show me.