روايات وقصص ضمن The Picture Of Dorian Gray

{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.

“I’m looking for an old book. They said only this place has it.” I finally lifted my gaze, meeting his. “What are you looking for?” My voice came out calm, sharp, slightly cynical, just like Mae. “The Picture of Dorian Gray,” he replied politely. I gestured to the shelf behind me. “Top shelf. Left side.” He nodded quickly and moved. “Thanks.” I raised an eyebrow, silent. “Cut.”

he said, spinning on his heel to leave. It left me alone with all of Dorian’s gifts, and I quickly set everything up by the large bay window to get started. This time, as I took a seat on the barstool and eyed the blank canvas, I attempted to use the fancy paints to bring a portrait of Dorian to life by memory.

The kind that clings to your skin and makes your bones feel older than they should. I kneel in the silence, my body still trembling from the last transformation. My skin feels flayed, my muscles twitch with aftershocks, and the scent of blood fills my nostrils until I want to retch. Lucian stands still as a statue beside Dorian’s body. The gash in Dorian’s chest seeps slowly, a fatal wound. His eyes are open, staring into some unseen world, and a soft, strange smile curves his lips. “He’s gone,” I whisper, voice hoarse.

he murmured. Elias took a moment. “No. But I think we learn how to carry it without breaking.” Lucas didn’t answer. He just nodded. Because that felt true. The silence between them was comfortable until a voice cut through the trees. “Well, aren’t you two just a damn painting.” They both jumped. Elias was already on his feet, tense. A figure stepped from the shadows, hands raised. It was Dorian. But he wasn’t the Dorian they’d last faced no sleek suit, no slicked-back hair. This version was thinner, hollowed out by whatever price he'd paid for the choices he'd made.

The lightness was almost always present, that particular easy quality of someone who found the world more interesting than threatening. It was not present now. He set down his cup very carefully. He looked at the table for a moment. Then he looked at me. "Late thirties," he said. "Lean. Stillness about him." "Yes." "Was he wearing anything with a grey cord at the collar? A thin one. Easily missed." I thought back. The corridor. The man. The detail of his clothing. "Yes," I said slowly. "I think so." Dorian was quiet for three full seconds, which from him was the equivalent of someone else pacing the room.

He brings his mouth down on mine, and my body comes alive as he touches me, running his fingers up my back until he finds my bra and deftly unhooks it. "There were no actual pricks in that exhibit," I say, laughing. "Well, until you showed up." Dorian smacks my bare ass. "So witty." "Are you going to let me see it?" I ask. "I'm definitely going to let you see it," he says, unbuckling his pants. "That too," I say. "Go open it." I tear the paper from the package like a kid on Christmas morning, and look at the photo. "Oh my God."

It was so long ago that I didn't remember what a genuine smile on his face looked like. I felt my cheeks get a little wet. This picture was who Dorian used to be. He used to be my favourite person in the world, but now, he was a cold and cruel monster who only cared about himself. The pictures brought back memories of the good old days, but sadly, they weren't what I was looking for. I put them back in the cabinet and closed it as I had seen. I exhaled sadly, and my head dropped to the ground. There was only one thing left to do: since there were no pictures in my father's room, Dorian was bound to have some pictures of his sister in his room.

The family never had time for themselves—they never had time to be genuine… “Marlene, it’s time,” Georgia’s sweet voice reached her. Marlene smiled, walked close to her mother, and sat in the middle while the guys stood beside them, eyes focused on the camera, giving a picture-perfect pose. Marlene held her phone as it beeped with a text. She tried to ignore it, but it beeped again. “Do something about that piece of sh!t,” Mr. Blackwood instructed. She tried to silence it, but her eyes caught sight of a message: