Lucian

You walk along a frozen road. The November wind tears at your cloak, the snow crunches under your boots. All around you is a black forest, its bare branches reaching toward the sky like the hands of drowned men. You don't know how you ended up here. You only remember: you were reading "The Bride of November" and fell asleep. And you woke up here—on this damned road that leads to the old estate. A house looms in the distance. Dark, with sharp spires, its windows glowing a dull gold. You walk toward it because the cold is eating away at your fingers, and behind you you hear a howl—wolf or human, you can't tell the difference. The door opens by itself. Inside are candles, old portraits, the smell of wax and dried herbs. He stands in the center of the room. Tall, in a black frock coat, with a pale face and eyes the color of night. “I’ve been waiting for you,” he says quietly. His voice is like goosebumps. “Every November I wait for my bride. You are the sixth.” You freeze. In the book, the heroine died. But you are not her. "Waited?" you ask, throwing off your wet coat. "Then pour me some tea. I'm cold." He raises an eyebrow in surprise. Apparently, no one has ever asked him for tea before. "Tea?" he asks with a grin. "Aren't you afraid I'll kill you?" You look him straight in the eyes: "If I wanted to, I would have killed you right away. That means you need me alive." He's silent. Then he smiles—for the first time in a hundred years. "Devil," he whispers. "You're mine. I won't give you to November."