My Husband Is A Psychopath

Chapter 11: Please Let Me Rest, You Demon

Nicholaus POV – Bathroom, Vlatislov Estate

I swear—at first, I walked into the bathroom just to tease her.

Just to watch her little face burn in irritation.

Just to see that fire in her eyes when she says no but her body says yes.

But the moment I stepped closer, the moment she tried covering herself like that—

Something in me snapped.

Now her back was pressed against the cold tiles, her legs around my waist, and I was deep inside her—

And f**k… she was so tight I could barely think straight.

Her nails dug into my shoulders.

Her breath hitched.

Her head fell back.

“Ni–Nicholaus—” she gasped, voice trembling.

I grabbed her jaw, forcing her to look at me.

“Look at me, kotyonok.”

Her eyes fluttered open—wide, hazy, pleading.

“You said no,” I growled against her lips, thrusting harder, “but your body… you’re the one moving on me.”

“I—I’m not—” she tried.

I caught her mouth with mine, swallowing her lie as she kissed me back—hungry, desperate, losing herself.

“Not what?” I smirked against her lips. “Not enjoying this?”

“I hate you,” she whispered breathlessly.

I thrust deeper.

She moaned—loud.

Too loud.

“Hate me?” I repeated, nipping her neck. “Then why are you holding onto me so tightly?”

She squeezed her legs around me, trembling.

Her voice cracked.

“Shut up…”

I chuckled darkly, sliding a hand down her thigh.

“Admit it,” I whispered, lips brushing her ear.

“You want me.”

She bit my shoulder so hard I hissed.

“f**k you.”

I grinned.

“I am. And you’re loving every second of it.”

***

Anya POV – Vlatislov Estate, Bathroom Not So Clean Anymore

I swear… I’m dying.

My legs feel like noodles, my lungs feel like they sprinted a marathon, and the bathroom—this once innocent holy place meant for bathing and peace and EXISTING—now looks like it survived a small earthquake caused by Nicholaus “Spawn of Satan” Vlatislov.

I slid down the tiled wall, panting, trying to gather even one ounce of dignity left in my soul.

“Please…” I muttered, raising a shaky hand like I was surrendering to the devil himself. “Let me rest. I’m human. A frail, suffering human—NOT A MACHINE.”

He was toweling his hair like nothing happened.

Like he didn’t turn the bathroom into a crime scene of sin and sweat.

Like I didn’t just see God, the devil, and the ancestors of Russia all at once.

He looked down at me with that smirk—the smirk that makes me want to stab him with the nearest shampoo bottle.

“You tired already?” he asked, voice dripping amusement. “Kotyonok… it’s barely noon.”

“Noon?” I croaked. “IT’S STILL THE SAME DAY?!”

He chuckled—chuckled—and crouched down to tilt my chin up.

“I told you before,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across my trembling lip,

“you’re mine. Every part of you. Every hour.”

I shoved his hand away weakly.

“Every hour?” I glared. “Nicholaus, I cannot do this. If you keep going like this I’ll be buried in your estate before our one‑month anniversary.”

He smirked even harder.

“You say that,” he said, leaning closer, “but look at how you melt for me.”

“I MELT BECAUSE I’M TIRED!” I snapped. “AND BECAUSE YOU BROKE MY LEGS—NOT BECAUSE I LIKE YOU!”

He lifted me with ease—LIKE I WEIGHED NOTHING—and carried me bridal‑style toward the bedroom.

“W–Where are you taking me?!”

“To rest,” he said smoothly…

I sighed in relief—

“On my chest.”

Oh for f**k’s sake.

“NICHO—PUT ME DOWN! I NEED A NAP! I NEED LIFE SUPPORT!”

He only laughed.

This man is going to kill me. Physically. Emotionally. Sexually. Religiously. All of it.

***

Nicholaus POV – Vlatislov Estate, Our Crime Scene Bedroom

I swear…

The moment I laid her on the bed, she passed out like a light switch I flicked off myself.

She didn’t even twitch.

Snorting softly.

Blanket pulled up by me, the devil she cursed all morning.

I stood there in nothing but a towel, running a hand through my wet hair, staring at this tiny, unconscious little disaster of a wife—naked, flushed, exhausted, looking like she just lost a battle against a hurricane.

Damn… was I too rough?

I clicked my tongue, glancing at the red marks all over her neck down to her thighs.

Maybe a little.

But she asked for it—well, not with words, but her body sure as hell did.

Every woman I ever f****d?

Boring. Predictable.

They'd cling, fake moan, pretend to be impressed.

But Anya?

She’s chaos.

A trembling kitten one minute and a snarling brat the next.

And the only one—the ONLY one—who can push this big bastard between my thighs to the edge every damn second.

As if my c**k finally found its home. Its purpose.

Its destiny.

I leaned down, brushing a soft kiss against her forehead—something I’ve never done to any woman—and tucked the blanket tighter around her shell‑shocked body.

She’ll probably try to stab me later.

Adorable.

“Rest, kotyonok,” I whispered, brushing a thumb across her cheek. “You’ll need it.”

Then I changed into a fresh shirt, fastening the buttons slowly while my smirk grew sharper.

Because now that my wife quota of torture is done for the morning…

My other toys await.

Down in the basement.

Where disobedience has a price.

I descended the stairs, the lights flickering on automatically.

My men straightened as I entered.

The captive chained against the wall trembled at the sight of me.

Good.

“General,” one soldier saluted, “the traitor is ready.”

I cracked my knuckles and stepped forward, my smirk stretching into something dark.

“Perfect timing,” I said coldly.

“My wife disobeyed me today. I need to vent.”

The prisoner begged. Useless.

I picked up the metal baton, twirling it.

“Let’s begin.”

***

Nicholaus POV – Vlatislov Estate, Torture Chamber

The metal door slammed behind me, echoing through the concrete room like a death sentence.

Seven of them.

Seven useless rebels dragged in here after they dared—DARED—to protest in front of the Presidential Palace two days ago.

Protesting my father.

Protesting the Vlatislov regime.

Now they huddled together like starving dogs, wrists bound, bruised, trembling every time my boots clicked against the floor.

Good.

Fear was the only language rebels understood.

I picked up the steel rod from the tray, spinning it lightly in my hand.

Their eyes widened, throats tightening with whimpers they tried to swallow.

“General… please—” one croaked.

I tilted my head slowly, almost curious.

“Please what?” I asked softly. “Please spare you?”

I let out a low chuckle, tapping the rod against his cheek. “Why? You didn’t spare my family name when you opened your filthy mouth on the streets.”

I turned my gaze to the others—bloody, broken, shaking.

“My father,” I said calmly, “Maxim Dimitri Vlatislov… built this nation with blood and discipline.”

I took a step forward.

“And you rats thought you could tarnish his name?”

One of them found the stupidity to spit at my boots.

I smiled.

A cold, empty smile.

“Brave,” I murmured. “But pointless.”

I gripped his jaw hard, forcing his face up to mine.

“You stand against a Vlatislov… you disappear. You scream. You beg. You die.”

I threw him back against the wall.

Then I raised the rod, smirking darkly.

“Now… let’s start cleansing,” I said, voice dripping venom. “Tonight, I’ll teach you what loyalty means.”

The first scream filled the room.

And it felt like home.

***

Dominik POV – Unknown Dark Room

Cold. That’s the first thing I register.

Cold metal chair. Cold cuffs tightening around my wrists. Cold air licking the sweat on my neck.

Moments ago, I was outside—free. Watching Anya step into the car, her husband pulling her close like she’s made of porcelain and explosives. The door shut. She bent a little—maybe she dropped something, maybe she stumbled—and then darkness swallowed me. A bag. A hit. Nothing.

And now…

A door clicks.

Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. Heavy enough to echo authority.

I force my head up.

The man entering is the same one who had his arm wrapped around Anya. The same man she called husband. The man with the expression of a saint carved from ice and the aura of a devil made flesh.

A gun hangs loosely from his hand like it’s an extension of his bones.

Shit.

My throat dries instantly.

He stands in front of me, eyes unreadable, posture regal in that high‑ranking uniform that screams unquestioned power.

“W‑wait,” I stutter before I even plan to. “There must be a mistake—”

His head tilts slightly.

Not confused.

Not amused.

Just… assessing.

“Your voice trembles.” His tone is calm, almost bored. “That’s good.”

I swallow hard. “I haven’t done anything. I was just—”

“Stalking my wife.”

His words slice clean, precise.

“I— No! I wasn’t stalking anyone! I just— I just saw her—”

He steps closer.

The gun presses against my forehead so sharply my eyes cross trying to focus on the barrel.

My breath stops.

“The moment you laid your eyes on her,” he murmurs, “you signed a death warrant for yourself.”

A chill tears down my spine.

I try to move, flinch, anything—but the restraints bite into my skin.

“I wasn’t— I swear— I don’t even know her—”

His lips curve.

A smile.

But not a human one.

“That,” he says softly, “is exactly why you’re still alive. For now.”

He crouches so we’re eye‑level. His gaze is a storm. Slow. Controlled. Deadly.

“Tell me,” he whispers, “what exactly did you see when my wife bent over?”

My stomach drops. f**k.

“I— Nothing! I wasn’t looking— I swear—”

The click of the safety releasing freezes my entire soul.

“Try again,” he murmurs.

“Lie to me one more time.”

***

Nicholaus POV — Torture Chamber, Vlatislov Estate

The stench of blood still clings to my gloves.

Seven useless rebels—rats gnawing at my father’s regime—now nothing but broken meat on the floor. Order restored. Vlatislov name protected.

I’m wiping the blade when one of my men leans close to whisper.

The words pour into my ear like gasoline.

My blood boils.

And yet… excitement curls slowly in my gut.

Anya’s ex-fling.

Caught.

Dragged into my estate.

Followed her.

Followed us.

Into the church.

How f*****g bold.

I grin.

“Well,” I say, sliding the bloody knife into the tray with a soft clink, “bring him to my chamber.”

When they shove him inside, tied and trembling, I feel a hum under my skin—rage, jealousy, hunger all melting into one dangerous need.

He tries to lift his head. “P-please… I didn’t follow anyone, I just—”

I laugh. Loud. Sharp.

“Relax,” I say, stepping toward him with lazy steps. “I’m nice. I swear.”

I squat in front of him, wiping a streak of blood from my fingers onto his cheek.

“I told my men… if you said you were flying back to Vienna, I’d forgive you.”

I brush his hair aside like he’s a pet.

“Merciful, right?”

He nods frantically. “Y-yes—yes, I can—I’ll leave—tonight, right now—just please—”

“Mmm.” I tilt my head, studying him. “But here’s the problem.”

I trail a finger down his neck.

He freezes.

“You were staring,” I whisper.

“At her.”

“My wife.”

My voice drops, slow and dangerous:

“And I hate when men stare at what’s mine.”

He shakes his head violently. “No—no, I wasn’t—Nicholaus, please—”

“Oh, lover boy, don’t lie.”

My smile stretches wider.

“Lying makes me… creative.”

He squeezes his eyes shut. “Please—just let me leave—”

I chuckle softly.

“Leave?” I echo. “You think you just… walk out?”

I tap his knee.

“You’re in my chamber now.”

His breath hitches.

I stand, roll my shoulders, crack my knuckles.

“I’m curious,” I murmur, circling behind him.

“How long can you hold up? Hmm?”

“How long until you break?”

My voice drips with cold amusement.

“Let’s see if the little fling from Vienna… is even worth the jealousy he caused.”

I lean down, lips near his ear.

“Don’t disappoint me.”

***

Dominik POV — Unknown Room, Drowning in Hell

I don’t know how long I’ve been screaming.

My throat is raw, my lungs burn, and every time the whip cracks against my back, my vision turns white. I’m shaking so violently the chair beneath me creaks. My sweat, my tears, my blood—they all mix on the cold floor.

I should’ve never flown from Vienna.

I should’ve never stepped near that damned church.

I should’ve never looked at Anya—

But he saw my phone.

He saw everything.

Our photos.

Her head on my shoulder.

Our Vienna nights.

Our smiles.

And now I’m paying the price.

Nicholaus Vlatislov stands in front of me like a demon sent to collect what’s left of my soul. A jealous devil—no, jealousy isn’t even the word. He looks… possessed. His rage is something ancient, feral.

“I’ll leave,” I choke out, my voice breaking. “I—I promise. You won’t see me again. I swear—just let me go—”

He smirks.

The whip cracks again.

I scream. I can’t help it. And when the pain becomes too much, I feel warm liquid spill in my pants.

His laughter echoes around the room.

“Tell me,” he says, voice soft but venomous, “how long were you together?”

I shake my head. “P-please—”

He crouches in front of me, lifts my chin with his bloody glove. His cigar glows, ember bright—and then he presses it against my neck.

I howl.

“Did you still love her,” he hisses, “when she left Vienna? When she came back here?”

His eyes widen—unhinged, hungry.

“Tell me—was she still yours?”

I can’t breathe. I can’t lie.

I can’t tell him the truth either.

“She—she broke up with me,” I sob. “I… I was the one who clung. I—”

He grabs my collar, yanking me forward so fast I nearly fall off the chair.

“IS SHE NEVER BROKE UP WITH YOU?” he roars into my face. “ANSWER ME!”

I see it there—the devil.

Right in his irises.

“N-No, sir,” I croak. “She… she broke up with me. I’m the one who held on b-because I—”

His hand slides to his gun.

Oh god.

Oh god.

Say something. Anything.

“Because I am a maniac!” I scream. “Obsessed and—and a pervert! I swear I would never touch what’s yours! I swear—sir—please—”

His smile widens.

Slow.

Terrifying.

For one moment, I think I’m safe.

And then—

BANG.

A metallic punch slams into my head.

The world tilts.

My vision pulses black.

My thoughts scatter like broken glass.

Darkness swallows me whole.

***

Nicholaus POV — Torture Chamber, Vlatislov Estate

The smell of blood still clings to the air—thick, metallic, familiar.

Dominik’s body is already being dragged across the floor, limp as a rag doll, leaving a smeared trail behind my boots.

Eight bodies today.

A productive morning.

I exhale slowly, letting the heat of the room settle into my bones. No guilt. No remorse. Not even a flicker of regret. Only satisfaction—a deep, vicious satisfaction curling like smoke in my chest.

I wipe the splatter off my cheek with the back of my hand, crimson streaking across my skin.

“Dispose of him,” I say quietly.

My men wait, tense, before I add,

“In the incinerator. With the other seven.”

“Yes, sir,” they answer in unison, dragging the corpse toward the steel door at the back of the chamber.

The rebellion scum.

The traitors.

And now Anya’s little Vienna ghost.

All burned into nothing.

I watch the door shut with a heavy metallic slam.

Embers glow through the small viewing window.

A perfect ending.

I adjust my cuffs, inhaling deeply.

The rage inside me—eased.

The jealousy—gone.

That suffocating twist inside my stomach—the one that clawed me the moment I saw that man following our car—finally dissolved.

“No one,” I murmur, lifting my chin, “takes her from me.”

A guard approaches carefully. “Sir… should we inform madam of the… incident?”

I laugh.

A low, cruel sound.

“Are you insane?” I glance at him with a raised brow. “Anya doesn’t need to know anything.”

I tap my temple.

“She belongs to me.

And now—there’s nothing left in this world that can steal her away.”

I turn, the echo of my boots trailing behind me as I climb the stairs back to my estate—back to my sleeping wife.

Back to what’s mine.