Novel & Cerita The Picture Of Dorian Gray

“But you survive because of me.” Adrian snarled, shoving her back. She slid with the grace of someone who had trained her entire life for this moment, landing light, balanced, ready. “Do you know why I wear gray?” she asked suddenly, circling him. Adrian’s jaw tightened, blood dripping down his arm. He didn’t answer. “Because it is the color of hunger,” she murmured, voice low, almost intimate. “Never black, never white. Always in between. Always consuming.” Her eyes darkened. “Like my obsession with you.”

POV: Beatrice A worn copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray wasn’t something I ever imagined finding among Ryuu’s belongings. Yet, there it was, the creased spine and dog-eared pages betraying how many times it had been read. As I picked it up to place it among my own books, a few photographs slipped free, drifting silently to the floor like ghosts of a past I didn’t know existed. Two photos. Both folded, creased with time.

In the distance, shadows coiled and twisted unnaturally, and encircling a lone figure. As she stepped closer, her vision sharpened, and she gasped. The figure was Dorian. His face, pale and etched with agony, came into view as he struggled against the dark tendrils wrapping around him. His movements were frantic, his hands clawing at the shadows as they dragged him deeper into the forest’s depths.

"I don't care what the council said. Open the cell." They exchanged glances, then one moved to unlock the heavy door at the end of the corridor. The cell was small. Dark. A single barred window let in weak moonlight. Dorian sat on the narrow cot, hands clasped between his knees. He looked up when the door opened. He looked older. Gray streaked his hair, and deep lines carved his face. But his eyes—those were the same. Cold. The eyes of a man who'd dedicated his life to hunting my kind.

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.”

“Or maybe I just see what’s right in front of me.” “And what’s in front of you?” “You,” he said simply. I didn’t say anything to that. I just looked at him. He leaned in a little. “Don’t look at me like that.” “Like what?” “Like you’re about to kiss me.” I laughed again, loud and real. “I’m not going to kiss you, Dorian.” “I know,” he said. “But that look… It's dangerous. It's like you're undressing me with your eyes slowly, like you've seen all that's beneath my cloth, and then....”

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.

We talked about work, or just enjoyed each other's company. Suddenly, the foreman yelled, "Odette! Someone's here for you!" I looked where he pointed. A figure stood at the foggy edge of the site. He walked closer slowly. My blood instantly froze. Dorian. Five years had passed. He looked awful. His once perfect face was now gaunt. His once-piercing eyes were now sunken pits of exhaustion and despair. He looked like a ghost lost for centuries. A deathly sorrow clung to him like a shroud.

{Elara’s POV} I stared at the photo a little longer before carefully placing it back inside the book and setting it on the table. I laid back on the bed and thought about the wide smile Dorian had in the photo. He looked like a completely different person. That photo was probably only a few years old, and I couldn’t help but wonder if they were still friends, or what might have happened to make Dorian so cold and controlling. Either way, I wouldn’t get the answers by thinking about it, so I closed my eyes and went to sleep.

Finally getting to the top, she comes to stand next to him. He lifts the lantern to shine light over the wall, exposing old paintings. Very old. Portraits of men with long, braided hair. Some have mustaches, some have only shoulder-length hair, while others fall to their backs. But all of them have the familiar colour in their hair and their eyes. Silver-grey. Troy's breath catches as she looks closer. “Dorian, what’s this?” He steps forward to light more paintings along the wall. The oldest one looks so ancient that you can't see his face anymore. He sits with tribal necklaces around his neck and around his head. The paper is made out of ancient scabs of leaves…or something.