The Picture Of Dorian Gray Oscar Wilde Novels & Stories

… Many years later, Lucas walked into Dorian's quarters, yet the latter was nowhere to be found. By chance, he noticed a photograph resting on the desk. It was a picture of a gorgeous young girl with large, luminous eyes. Anyone who had ever laid eyes on me would be able to tell at a single glance that she was my daughter. Lucas hurriedly put the photo away. Just then, Dorian returned. Lucas couldn't help but ask softly, "Alpha Dorian, we all understood your inability to move on when Ms. Lovel got married back then. But now that her pup is all grown up, have you still not moved on?"

I continued following them silently, staying tucked behind the high, trimmed hedges. Up ahead, near the grand marble fountain, Dorian was talking animatedly, waving his hands as he told some ridiculous story. I gritted my teeth as Scarlett let out a light, genuine laugh at his silly jokes. They came to a halt right by the edge of the trickling water. “Here…” Dorian said smoothly. He reached into his coat pocket and took out a small, polished velvet box, flipping it open to reveal a shimmering diamond hairpin. “I saw it and thought it’d look absolutely beautiful on you.”

"Oh, sorry pun." He frowned. "Awful." He slowly stood up, rubbing his belly. I smiled dryly, turning my attention back to the shelf of novels, my eyes sparkling with excitement. I picked out a book, and examined it with curiosity, deep down I knew that I would love to immerse myself in this book. "The Picture of Dorian Gray," He read the title, sounding almost surprised. "Didn't know you were into that dark romantic literature." I smirked. "There's so much you don't know about me, Ryan."

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.

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.

Vivienne hadn’t even been gone yet. She turned the photograph over again, rereading the words: He promised it wasn’t just a show. Her pulse leapt into her throat. Isolde stepped back into the light slicing through the shattered window. She took a picture of the photograph with her burner phone. Another for redundancy. Then she slipped the original into her coat pocket, pressed against her heart like it might burn a hole through the lining. Outside, Dorian stood under a rusted awning, one hand in his pocket, the other curled tightly around the bridge of his nose.

But as I reached for the last book, my fingers brushed against something stiff and glossy. A framed photograph. My breath hitched in my throat as I pulled it out It was old, the edges curled slightly with time. But the image was clear. Dorian stood there, younger than I had ever seen him, his usual smirk absent from his lips. He looked almost… solemn. Beside him stood a woman. Her dress was plain, almost like a maid’s uniform, but something about her posture, the sharpness in her eyes, told me she wasn’t just a servant.

Trouble clung to him like mist clings to midnight trees. “Hello, little brother,” Dorian purred with a dangerous smile. “Still as fierce as ever.” Before I could blink, she vanished in a shimmer of light, reappearing before him in a flash. Then the world tilted. Pressure. It struck the room like a tidal wave—wolf spirits clashing. My breath hitched as I saw it, clearly for the first time: the spectral forms behind them, larger than life. Dorian’s spirit, swirling with violet flame and a silver gleam, bared its fangs. Draven’s, colossal and drenched in black and crimson, countered with a low growl that shook the floorboards.

“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....”

“Maybe I can help. I can even get you into the restricted section.” I froze, a chill creeping down to my fingertips. Dorian always knew more than he should. It was as if he could read my thoughts. “Don’t look at me like that.” Dorian let out a soft chuckle. He picked up a random book and opened it carefully. “I like observing. I read physical changes and emotions the way I read a formula.” “Yeah… you’re terrifying.” “You see…” Dorian closed the book. “I know you’re chasing something far more dangerous than knowledge. Am I right?”