Page 99 of Dark Bonds

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” I say, trying to act cool even though my heart’s racing. “Tall, dark, and broody decided to join the party. What’s the occasion, Dorian? Run out of hair gel?”

“Leo,” he rasps, his voice raw with emotions I can’t name. “I need to speak with Frankie and the rest of the pack. It’s... It’s important.” He looks past me, scanning the interior with a hunger that sets my teeth on edge. “I... I wasn’t sure I’d find you here. How did you even know about this place?”

I raise an eyebrow, filing away this odd bit of information in the ever-growing list ofshit that might get us killed. “Let’s just say a little shadow beast led us to the perfect den, but that’s astory for another time. Right now, you look like you danced with the devil and lost.”

As Dorian enters, bringing the scent of night air and barely contained chaos with him, I bound up the stairs. The old wood screams beneath my feet, a symphony of pain that matches the crescendo of dread building in my chest. “Frankie! Matteo!” I call out, my voice carrying a hint of its usual playfulness, a desperate attempt to cling to normalcy. “We’ve got company, and it’s the kind that might eat us!”

Footsteps thunder above, and my packmates appear. Frankie comes down first, her hair all crazy like usual, but her face is all business. Her eyes flash, ready for a fight. It makes my heart do this weird flip-flop thing—parthell yeahand partoh crap. The aroma of wildflowers and steel intensifies, her very being a weapon poised to strike.

Matteo follows, his calculated gaze dissecting the scene before him. His presence brings a false calm, the eye of a storm that threatens to tear us all apart. I watch his eyes dart to every possible exit, cataloging escape routes with the precision of a man who knows the value of a quick getaway.

“Dorian,” Frankie says, her voice sharp enough to draw blood. The leather of her jacket creaks as she crosses her arms, her stance wide and unyielding—a queen ready to defend her castle.

Dorian takes a shuddering breath, and I swear I see the weight of centuries settling on his shoulders. The scent of his fear hits me like a physical blow, acrid and sharp with an underlying note of rot that makes my stomach churn. Beneath it all, I catch whiffs of smoke and copper, promises of violence yet to come.

“That,” Matteo says, his voice serious, “is our big problem. It’s killing the shadow realm, bit by bit, and it’s getting closer.”

The tension in the room ratchets up several notches, thick enough to choke on. My trademark grin fades, replaced by a grimace that feels carved into my face. For once, not even my well-honed humor can pierce this veil of dread that’s descended upon us.

Matteo’s eyes narrow, no doubt already calculating our odds of survival. Frankie, my brave, beautiful Frankie, looks like an avenging angel preparing for the apocalypse.

“Alright, Dorian,” Frankie says, her voice low and dangerous, a growl that sends shivers down my spine. Her eyes, as sharp as broken glass, never leave his face. “But we play by my rules now. I want the truth, all of it, no matter how ugly, because if you’re holding back even a shred of information, so help me, I’ll—” She cuts herself off, taking a deep breath that seems to steady the foundation of the house. “Just... don’t make me regret this.”

We file into the living room like condemned men marching to the gallows, the floorboards groaning beneath our feet in a funeral dirge. The air thickens with each passing second, heavy with unspoken accusations and simmering rage. As we settle onto the worn leather couch, it creaks in protest, the sound sharp as a gunshot in the suffocating silence. Shadows dance at the edges of my vision, and I can’t shake the feeling that they are closing in, waiting to devour us whole.

Dorian’s fingers trace the embossed cover of an ancient tome on the coffee table, his touch almost reverent. Even in the midst of a crisis, his love for arcane knowledge shines through. The gesture seems to ground him, and when he speaks, his voice is steadier, though no less terrifying for its calm.

“First, I apologize for not showing up yesterday,” he begins, his eyes meeting each of ours in turn, burning with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. “I’ve kept things from you. My intentions were... misguided. The weight of my family’s secrets... it’s a burden I never wanted to share.” For a brief moment, aflash of his old charm surfaces, a glimpse of the man he once was. “But I suppose that’s what I get for thinking I could outrun fate.”

Dorian takes a deep breath, his eyes boring into ours with an intensity that makes my wolf want to bare its throat in submission. “I’m... I’m the descendant of Dorian Gray.”

The name hangs in the air like a death sentence, heavy with the weight of literary infamy and supernatural horror. I feel my jaw drop, and I hear Matteo’s sharp intake of breath, a rare display of surprise from our usually unflappable strategist.

“Wait,” Frankie says, her brow furrowed in confusion and disbelief. “Dorian Gray as in... the fictional character? The one who sold his soul for eternal youth?”

Dorian’s laugh is hollow, echoing in the suddenly too small room. “Oh, if only it were that simple, Frankie. The story is just the tip of a very dark, very fucked up iceberg.”

He takes a shuddering breath, and I swear I can see the weight of centuries settling on his shoulders. “My ancestor, the real Dorian Gray, didn’t just sell his soul, he tore a hole in reality itself, trying to escape death, and when the dust settled, he was... changed. Immortal, yes, but also cursed. And that curse? It didn’t die with him. It’s been passed down, growing stronger with each generation, until it reached me.”

The silence that follows is so thick I could cut it with my claws. Frankie’s eyes are wide, a mix of horror and fascination that I’m sure is mirrored on my own face. Matteo’s already scribbling in that notebook of his, probably calculating the odds of us all dying horribly.

“Hold up,” I interject, my mind reeling from the implications. “Are you saying Oscar Wilde was some kind of supernatural biographer? Because I have to say, that puts a whole new spin on English class.”

Dorian’s laugh is hollow, devoid of any real humor. “Not exactly. Wilde knew parts of the story, but he didn’t know the whole truth. No one did until recently—until it was too late to stop the curse from spreading.”

“What truth?” Matteo leans forward, his eyes sharp with a hunger for knowledge that matches Dorian’s.

Dorian’s fingers trace the embroidery on a throw pillow, his gaze distant, lost in memories too painful to fully resurface. “The painting... It was real—a magical artifact that stored all of Dorian Gray’s sins, including his aging, his... darkness—but when it was destroyed, the curse didn’t end. It passed on to his descendants, growing stronger with each generation.”

“And now it’s yours,” Frankie says softly, her eyes wide with a mixture of horror and understanding.

Dorian nods, the weight of centuries visible in the slump of his shoulders. “But there’s more. My mother... She wasn’t just human, she was a shadow shifter.”

The revelation hits like a physical blow. I find myself gripping the armrest of the couch, my claws threatening to emerge and shred the leather to ribbons.

“So you’re a hybrid?” Frankie questions, her voice barely above a whisper. “A cursed immortal and a shadow shifter?”

Dorian just nods slowly, the gesture carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken confessions.

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