The Picture Of Dorian Gray Oscar Wilde Novels & Stories

And somewhere deep inside the shadows, even Dorian smiled. Not because he’d won. But because flame had returned Not as war. But as grace.

Dorian cannot turn away what he has done to people. My heart thrashes with expectation as a black luxury vehicle pulls up across the street. Dorian leaves, dressed in a black suit, his face incomprehensible—but I know him too well. His shoulders are too stiff, his motions too exact. He is already on tight alert. Superior. I watch him cross the street, but another man walks up to Bianca's table just before he gets to the door. Short. Blonde. Beautiful in a playboy type of manner. He stooping down whispers something in her ear. Bianca puts her hand on his knee and smiles—a seductive, private smile. Perfect on cue. As Dorian stands still staring at them, I can almost feel his wrath. Then he bur

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.

The ink on the vellum had not even had time to dry before the heavy oak doors of the conservatory were thrown open. Master Dorian did not wait to watch the final curve of Rashida’s signature settle into the grain of the parchment. His grey eyes, cold and sharp as polished steel, flickered with the vindictive triumph of a hunter who had finally pinned his prize. With a brief, dismissive flick of his gloved wrist, he signaled the lead guard.

Then I walked into class and found Dorian leaning against my desk, wearing the kind of innocent expression that never meant anything good. “Morning, princess,” he'd said. I narrowed my eyes. “What did you do?” “Why assume I've done anything?” “Because you're standing next to my presentation laptop and smiling like an idiot.” His grin widened. “You wound me, Marlowe.” I ignored him, connected my laptop, and opened my presentation. The first slide appeared on the screen, except it wasn't the title I'd prepared. It was a ridiculous photograph of me from a school sports day, caught mid-shout with my ponytail flying and my face twisted in outrage.

I'm the bait. Dorian smiles down at the vial. For a second his fangs extend — then retract. "Not yet," he whispers. "I can't taste your blood yet." He presses a plaster over the cut and seals the vial, admiring the crimson liquid a moment before tucking it into his pocket. Dorian leaves without a word, without so much as a backward glance. The moment the door closes behind him, my mind is racing — my thoughts rushing like a mountain stream forced through a narrow gorge.

Dorian yelled from behind, but I didn't care to glance at him. My eyes were stuck on the picture of the lady drawn on the paper. He had held this with care and attention like it was a bar of gold. "What is that?" Dorian asked, walking closer. I turned and handed this paper to him. He took it and gave it a short glance before gasping. "What? Do you know her?" With envy, I inquired, "How could another woman get his attention to the point where he drew her on paper?" "This is Elena!" He shrieked, leaving my eyes widened as I got really struck.

Aaron handed him a glass of golden-brown liquid, which was half way to the tippy top of the crystal glass. "Matinee..." He added as he noticed Adrian give the glass a disdain look, before looking up at him. "You also hate matinees?" "Also?" Adrian noticed his choice of words. "You appear unfazed by the relics and sentiments of this world –" Adrian raised a brow at him when he paused, which forced him to decide upon an explanation. "Dark... Cold... Rude... Antisocial! You appear to be someone who hates a awful lot of things."

I looked at Adonis - I mean Ozymandius, who had his eyes shining golden. "Say that again." he whispered, while putting his hands in his hair, and looking at me with that intimidating gaze of him. "What?" I asked. "Nothing." he said, straightening his pose and becoming serious again. "Now we have some things to discuss."

"No women ever shot her man while he was doing dishes." ~ Author unknown. - "Everyday. I couldn't be happy if I didn't see him everyday. He is absolutely necessary to me." Lucia read a quote from The picture of Dorian Gray. She vaguely smiled, this book meant so much to her. It was the book she once shared with him, a book that later hurt her because of the character he had compared her to but she loved it now. There was not a day she didn't read it, not a day she didn't read one quote from the book to keep herself going.