My Husband Is A Psychopath

Chapter 12: Mrs. Vlatislov

Anya POV — Vlatislov Estate, Our Hell Bedroom

I stare at my reflection, towel barely hanging on my shoulders, hair a messy disaster from him.

My skin looks like some damn canvas he decided to sign with his teeth, lips, and god‑forsaken hands.

Purple marks on my neck.

Red streaks on my hips.

Scratches down my back.

A bite on my thigh—

I swear I almost fainted when I saw that one.

Who bites someone there?

“That motherfucker,” I mutter under my breath, poking the bruise on my collarbone and wincing. “Is he marking territory or branding livestock?”

The door clicks open behind me.

Speak of the devil.

Nicholaus leans on the doorframe, arms crossed, eyes dark and amused—like he’s admiring his own artwork.

“What are you complaining about now, little wife?” he drawls, voice lazy but dangerous.

I whirl around and glare. “What am I—LOOK AT THIS!” I point at my neck, then my thigh. “I look like you wrestled me. With your teeth!”

He smirks.

Slow.

Proud.

Infuriating.

“I did,” he says simply, stepping closer. “And you tasted good.”

My jaw drops. “You’re insane!”

He brushes his fingers along my thigh mark and I nearly jump. “Hmm,” he murmurs, “you bruise beautifully. I can’t help it.”

I slap his hand away. “Stop marking me like I’m yours!”

He cages me against the dresser in one step, lips brushing my ear.

“You are mine, Anya.”

My breath hitches. Damn him.

Damn my body for reacting.

Damn this whole ridiculous situation.

I shove his chest lightly. “Get out. I want to get dressed without your demon eyes on me.”

He smirks again—

that devilish curve of his mouth.

“Fine,” he says, walking backward toward the door, eyes still glued to me. “But later…”

He lets his gaze drag over my bruised skin.

“…I’m adding more.”

I throw a pillow at him.

He laughs—low, deep, sinful—and shuts the door behind him.

***

Nicholaus POV — Vlatislov Estate, Bedroom of Sin

After disposing of that pathetic excuse of a man, I walked upstairs with the calm of someone who just finished paperwork—not murder.

Anya would never know.

She doesn’t need to.

Some truths are meant to stay buried… like Dominik.

The door is half‑open, and there she is.

My wife.

My little disaster.

Standing in front of the mirror, slipping into her bra, glaring at me like I just committed a crime.

If only she knew.

I lean against the wall, arms crossed, letting my eyes drag slowly over her like I’m studying a painting. Because I am. She’s mine. Every curve, every mark I left last night, every damn bruise with my name written on it.

She bends over to pick up her panties.

My brain shuts down.

Her ass is practically glowing at me like a beacon of temptation.

God.

I grip my arms tighter, fighting the urge to grab her and throw her on the bed again.

She pulls the panties up and then spins around, catching me staring—again.

Her eyes narrow dangerously. “What? WHAT are you staring at now?”

I raise both hands like I’m surrendering. “I didn’t touch. I swear.”

She groans, annoyed, cheeks flushing. “Stop looking at me like—like that!”

I chuckle low. “Like what? I’m just appreciating my wife.”

“You’re a pervert,” she mutters, snatching a shirt.

“You bend over like that again and you’ll see what pervert really means,” I say under my breath, but loud enough for her to hear.

She gasps. “Nicholaus!”

I smirk, pushing off the wall, walking toward her slowly as she backs up toward the bed.

“What?” I ask softly, trapping her with my gaze. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing to me?”

Her breath stutters.

I tilt her chin up with two fingers.

“You walk around half‑naked… and I’m supposed to behave?”

I grin, lips brushing her ear.

“That’s cute.”

She hits my chest with a weak slap. “Get out!”

I step back, laughing under my breath.

God.

What the hell is she doing to me?

***

Anya POV — Vlatislov Estate, Bedroom of Sin (where my suffering continues)

I swear the moment his eyes land on me, I feel my soul leave my body and file a complaint.

I pull my shirt over my head, still trying to pretend he’s not standing there like some smug Greek statue carved specifically to annoy me. I can feel his stare drilling holes into my spine.

I swear he watches me like I’m some rare meat he discovered in the forest.

I fix my hair in the mirror, trying to act normal.

Nope. Impossible.

His reflection is right behind me — tall, arrogant, with that stupid smirk that screams I know what you look like naked, and I liked it.

“Stop staring,” I mutter without turning.

“Oh please,” he says behind me. “As if you don’t like it.”

I freeze.

Heat rushes up my neck.

I hate him.

No, I hate his confidence.

No— I hate that he’s right.

“I DO NOT,” I snap, spinning around.

He raises a brow, looking way too entertained. “Anya… you moan louder than the church bells.”

My jaw drops. “NICHOLAUS HENRIK VLATISLOV—”

“Oh look,” he cuts me off, stepping toward me with that slow predator walk. “She knows my full name. How sweet.”

I back up immediately, but of course the bed catches my legs. “Stay away from me. I mean it.”

“Mmhm,” he hums, still closing in. “Terrifying. Really.”

He stops right in front of me, his shadow swallowing mine. I can smell his soap.

I can smell danger.

Same thing.

I point a finger at him. “Touch me and I swear—”

“You’ll what?” he asks, leaning in, lips brushing my cheek. “Run? Hide? Get lost in my mansion again?”

“THAT WAS ONE TIME—”

“And you ended up in my basement,” he reminds me, smirking. “Where you’re not allowed.”

“I was EXPLORING.”

“You were trespassing.”

“I was CURIOUS!”

“And I was patient.”

I blink. “Patient? YOU?”

“Yes.” He steps back, arms crossing again. “Because I didn’t bend you over the dresser just now.”

My brain explodes.

“I—I’m leaving,” I announce dramatically, grabbing my bag even though I have nowhere to go.

He laughs. Laughs.

“Where? To the kitchen? To burn another soup?”

My face flames. “It was ONE solyanka!”

“That tasted like poison.”

I grab a pillow and throw it at his smug face. “I HATE YOU!”

He catches the pillow easily, smirking as he whispers:

“And yet… you keep screaming my name.”

I freeze. Red. Entirely red.

“I’m going to kill you,” I whisper.

He grins like the devil himself.

“I look forward to it, sweetheart.”

***

Anzelina POV — Vlatislov Estate, Corridor of Domestic Bliss (and Chaos)

The sound coming from their bedroom…

Oh, heavens.

For the first time in years, the Vlatislov estate doesn't echo with silence, cold orders, or that rigid military tension my son carries like armor.

Instead—

Laughter.

Teasing.

Bickering.

And Anya’s dramatic shrieks mixed with my son’s deep chuckles.

I place a hand over my chest, smiling to myself as I pause outside their door.

Nicholaus… laughing.

My Nicholaus.

The boy who never smiled even as a child unless he won a fight.

The man who carried storms in his eyes every day.

The commander who grew up too fast, too harsh.

Now he laughs because of her.

I whisper softly to myself, “Oh, dear girl… you truly tamed the beast, didn’t you?”

I hear Anya shout inside:

“STOP TOUCHING ME!”

And Nicholaus responding with a laugh:

“Then stop being so touchable.”

I cover my mouth to contain my laugh. Good grief, that boy.

A maid passes by, glancing nervously at the bedroom door.

I wave her off. “Don’t mind them. That’s just my son flirting.”

She nods quickly and escapes down the hall.

I continue listening—yes, eavesdropping, but a mother is allowed.

Anya yells again:

“NICHOLAUS, I SWEAR IF YOU—”

Followed by Nicholaus’ warm, amused rumble:

“Calm down, wife.”

Wife.

My heart melts all over again.

I sigh dreamily, touching the bouquet of flowers I planned to place in the dining hall.

“If this continues,” I whisper to myself with a proud grin,

“I should prepare the nursery soon. My grandchild is on the way—I know it.”

I walk off, humming happily.

Finally… finally…

My son is alive.

And it’s all because of her.

***

Anya POV — Vlatislov Estate, Living Room of Pending Doom

I flop on the couch like a dead seal, legs crossed, remote in hand, finally—peace.

Finally that devil, that demon, that walking testosterone nightmare left the mansion.

I even wave at his car window like a queen sending off her worst enemy.

“Bye, Satan,” I mutter under my breath.

Then I turn on the TV.

Big mistake.

Huge mistake.

Because the news anchor’s voice nearly makes me choke on my own spit.

“A day from now, Nicholaus Henrik Vlatislov will be formally declared the President of the Soviet Union—”

I drop the remote.

It clatters to the floor loud enough that the maid peeks inside.

I wave her away with panic‑filled jazz hands.

“WHAT? PRESIDENT? NOW!?”

The TV continues like it’s announcing tomorrow’s weather.

I stand up.

Sit down.

Stand up again.

“What the fu—how—NO, NO, NO.” I pace like a trapped hamster.

“My husband—my husband—”

I clutch my head.

“Oh God, I’m married to the President. I’m married to a Dictator Deluxe. I’m married to Vladimir Hot‑Ass Stalin 2.0.”

The maid coughs awkwardly.

“Ma’am? Are you alright?”

I glare.

“NO! I’m not alright! I’m about to be First Lady of a country I don’t even understand!”

The TV now shows his face: cold, serious, sexy in a terrifying way.

Like he owns the entire planet.

“Oh my god…” I whisper, sinking into the couch again.

“My life is doomed. I can't even cook solyanka and now I have to host presidential dinners. Kill me.”

I grab a pillow and scream into it.

“WHY DID I MARRY A FUTURE DICTATOR!?!?”

Then I freeze.

…Oh right.

I didn’t choose.

He chose.

Like I was some kind of dessert on a platter.

I flop back again and mutter to myself,

“I swear when he comes home tonight, I’m gonna smack him with this pillow.”

***

Nicholaus POV — Moscow, Presidential Palace

I stand tall on the grand stage, the weight of the presidency finally on my shoulders. My father, Maxim Dimitri Vlatislov, steps aside, handing me the reins like I’ve been waiting for this my whole life. The media flashes like a storm, reporters shouting, cameras clicking—every eye fixed on me.

I smirk, thinking of Anya. If she sees this… the look on her face will be priceless. She’s been underestimating me since day one, and now? Now she’s married to the President of the Soviet Union.

I clear my throat, letting the silence settle before I speak.

“People of the Soviet Union,” I begin, voice calm but commanding, echoing through the grand hall, “today marks a new chapter for our nation. I, Nicholaus Henrik Vlatislov, vow to uphold the strength, honor, and legacy of our people. I will lead with unwavering conviction, and together, we will secure our place in history.”

A roar of approval explodes around me, but my eyes wander toward the entrance, imagining Anya’s reaction when she finally sees me in this role.

“And to my… wife,” I add, letting my voice drop slightly, just enough for those near the stage to catch the weight behind it, “know that you are now part of this legacy, whether you like it or not. You will carry yourself with the dignity expected of a Vlatislov.”

I smirk again, almost tasting her outrage from here. The thought of her flustered, powerless for once… it makes the power surge through me even stronger.

“This is our future,” I continue, voice steady, eyes scanning the crowd, “and together, we will shape it.”

I step down, poised, composed, but inside… I’m already imagining her scrambling thoughts as she learns just how permanent our reality has become.

***

Anya POV — Vlatislov Mansion, Living Room

Six Feet Under the Ground… I’m Doomed.

I slump on the velvet couch like my soul just filed for divorce. The TV is still on, announcing with full dramatic orchestra that my husband—the devil in a uniform—has officially become the President of the Soviet Union.

President.

My husband.

Nicholaus Henrik Vlatislov.

Oh. My. f*****g. God.

I bury my face in my hands.

“Yes, Anya. Congratulations,” I mumble to myself. “You’re officially married to Satan the President. You win. You truly f*****g win.”

I peek again at the television, watching Nicholaus smirk like he just conquered the world. And technically… he did.

“Being Mrs. Vlatislov was already exhausting and now—NOW I have to deal with state dinners? Diplomats? Protocol lessons? More flower arrangements? More teapot rituals?” I groan so loud even the maids probably heard my suffering.

I flop backward on the couch dramatically.

“What’s next? First Lady training? Learning how to wave like a queen? Memorizing boring political names? Wearing dresses that cover everything except my soul?”

I let out a dying-walrus noise.

“My life is over. Finished. Flattened. Six feet under. Someone bury me with a bottle of whiskey at least.”

Just then, the head maid peeks her head into the doorway with the politest fear I’ve ever seen.

“Madam Anya… Madam Anzelina asks if you’re ready for your new schedule.”

My head snaps up.

“…new what?”

She holds a clipboard. Dear god, it’s thick.

“Starting tomorrow: First Lady etiquette classes. Diplomatic greeting rehearsals. Press preparation. State dinner etiquette. And… lessons with Madam Anzelina for how a Presidential wife must behave.”

I stare at the clipboard like it’s a death sentence.

“I knew it,” I hiss.

“I f*****g KNEW IT. My tasks will triple. No—QUADRUPLE.”

I slam my face back into the couch cushion.

“I should’ve just stayed in Vienna with Ava and Enzo. I should’ve let the plane crash. I should’ve pretended the call was a scam.”

I groan again.

“Ughhhhhh… why me? WHY ME?!”

Somewhere upstairs, I swear I hear Nicholaus’s laughter echoing like some villain enjoying my misery from afar.

Of course he is.

Of f*****g course.

***

Nicholaus POV — Vlatislov Estate, Living Room

I stepped into the estate, the polished marble floors echoing under my boots. My eyes immediately caught my wife, Anya, sitting straight-backed with a notebook in her hands, scribbling carefully while my mother, Anzelina, instructed her. She looked… ridiculously focused, like a student taking notes on some ridiculously boring lesson.

I leaned against the doorway, crossing my arms, trying to suppress the laugh threatening to escape. Her serious little face, furrowed brows, tongue slightly sticking out as she wrote—pure comedy.

“She actually listens,” I muttered under my breath, amused.

Anzelina looked up, spotting me. “Nicholaus, I was just showing Anya the proper way to organize the household inventory. You know… groceries, supplies, the works.”

I smirked, stepping closer. “Inventory, huh? Sounds thrilling.” I let a chuckle slip, but quickly covered it with a cough.

Anya looked up at me, startled, eyes wide. “Nicholaus! Don’t sneak up like that. I was… uh… taking notes,” she stammered, holding up her notebook like a shield.

I grinned, circling her slightly. “Notes, huh? Planning your strategy to overthrow me as head of the estate, are we?”

She rolled her eyes, muttering, “If only…”

I laughed quietly again, shaking my head. “You’re ridiculous, you know that? My future First Lady… studying grocery lists like it’s a state secret.”

Anya groaned, returning to her notes, and I couldn’t help but admire her stubbornness.

“Well,” I said, smirking, “if you’re this meticulous with groceries, I can only imagine what havoc you’ll wreak once I’m away running the country.”

She looked up sharply, eyes narrowing. “Havoc? I’m just… efficient.”

I raised a brow. “Efficient. Right. That’s what they all say before they end up in my world of chaos.”

And I laughed again, quietly, savoring the absurdity of it all.