My Husband Is A Psychopath

Chapter 3: Soon My Life Will Be Hell

Nicholaus POV — Hemsworth Manor, Balcony

She walked away.

Not scared.

Not obedient.

Not humbled.

Just pissed off… and full of fire.

Good.

I stayed on the balcony, cigarette between my fingers, watching the smoke drift where she stood a second ago.

The girl had attitude—loud, sharp, reckless attitude.

Most women in my presence tremble.

Most men, too.

But her?

She coughed dramatically at my cigarette.

Insulted my name.

Smirked like she wanted to stab me with her heels.

When she called me Santa Claus, her eyes sparkled like she’d just won a war.

For a moment, I almost laughed.

Almost.

Instead, I took a slow drag, letting the ember glow in the dark, and murmured to myself:

“Brat.”

She stormed back inside, but not before I caught something in her eyes—

a flicker of realization…

that she’s marrying more than a man.

She’s marrying power.

A title.

A throne.

And a monster.

She’ll learn soon enough.

My father once said marriage is an alliance.

Augustus thinks this union is about politics, power, security.

They’re both wrong.

This marriage is about claiming.

I tossed the cigarette to the floor, crushing it beneath my boot.

Then I followed her inside, watching the sway of her hips as she tried to pretend I didn’t exist.

She thinks she can avoid me.

Ignore me.

Control me.

She has no idea the world she’s entering.

No idea the kind of husband she’ll have.

No idea the things I’ve done, the blood on my hands, the men I left begging for mercy in basements she’ll never see.

She thinks I’m just a general.

A future president.

She has no idea I’m far worse.

And soon—

she will.

I allowed myself a small, dangerous smirk.

“Running away won’t help you, kotyonok,” I murmured under my breath.

Because in one week—

the brat becomes mine.

***

Anya POV — Hemsworth Manor, My Room

The second I slammed my bedroom door shut, I let out a dramatic groan and threw myself face-first onto my bed.

“Damn it… I’m doomed,” I mumbled into the pillows.

I rolled over, staring at the ceiling like it personally betrayed me.

Marriage.

To a scary psychopathic military general who smokes like he’s allergic to oxygen.

My life was officially over.

“What do I even do?” I shouted to absolutely no one. “Should I pretend I’m sick? Like—dying sick? Fever? Plague? Oh my god, maybe I can fake tuberculosis!”

I sat up and grabbed my pillow dramatically.

“Or maybe I can fake amnesia. Yes! Who am I? Who are you? I don’t remember signing my life away!”

I let out an even louder groan and flopped back down.

Then a horrifying thought hit me.

“What if I’m adopted?” I gasped. Then I jumped up from the bed, eyes wide. “YES. Someone please tell me I’m adopted. Please! I don’t want to be the Prime Minister’s daughter. I want to go back to Vienna and party and drink like a normal person!”

I paced the room, pulling at my hair.

“Why couldn’t Dad arrange my marriage with someone boring? Like a senator’s son? Or a rich i***t? Or a banker who cries when he gets yelled at?”

But no.

He picks General Murder-Glare Santa Claus.

I sat at my vanity, staring at my reflection.

“Anya Frances Von Hemsworth,” I told myself. “You are too hot and too young to die in a political marriage.”

I leaned closer, whispering dramatically:

“You need a plan.”

I grabbed my phone instantly, typing furiously.

To Ava:

BABE IM GETTING MARRIED

TO A PSYCHO HOT GENERAL

HELP

Then I threw the phone aside and let out another scream into my pillow.

Yep.

I was screwed.

Completely screwed.

***

Ava POV — Vienna

I was lying on my bed, doing absolutely nothing productive—scrolling through memes, stalking my ex’s new boyfriend, judging people online—when my phone exploded with Anya’s messages.

I squinted at the screen.

BABE IM GETTING MARRIED

TO A PSYCHO HOT GENERAL

HELP

I sat up so fast I nearly snapped my spine.

“WHAT the actual…?”

I called her immediately. She didn’t pick up.

Of course she didn’t. Drama queen.

So I switched to voice message, clicking record while pacing my room like a rabid squirrel.

“ANNA FRANCISCA VON HEMSWORTH YOU BETTER ANSWER YOUR PHONE RIGHT NOW BECAUSE WHAT THE f**k DO YOU MEAN YOU’RE GETTING MARRIED?!”

I paused, then added with emphasis:

“To a PSYCHO. HOT. GENERAL?!”

I threw myself onto the bed.

“Oh my god, babe, are you joking? Is this some Moscovian prank? Did your dad drink vodka again and decide marriage is a game show? WHAT IS HAPPENING?!”

I stood up and grabbed my hair.

“If this is real, I swear to god—

I’m flying to Moscow, dragging you out of that manor, and slapping your father with my shoe!”

Another message:

“Also—send me a picture of him. Psycho + hot = very specific combination. I need to evaluate.”

Then another:

“WAIT. He’s a general?! Like… guns, war, scary uniform general? Babe do you realize you just described a villain from a mafia romance novel?!”

I started pacing again.

“Okay listen—if he’s hot, maybe you can seduce him into letting you escape? No, no—stupid plan. OR maybe pretend you’re still drunk? Ooh! Fake a seizure. Or rabies. RABIES WORK.”

I sent one last message.

“I am prepared to fake your death and smuggle you back to Vienna. I’ve watched enough crime documentaries to make it work.”

Then I waited. Phone in hand. Staring.

“Come on, Anya,” I whispered dramatically.

“Tell me you didn’t actually get engaged to Murder Clause.”

***

Anya’s POV – Hemsworth Manor, My Bedroom – The Next Morning

I thought the entire Vlatislov lineage had already left last night, but apparently the universe hates me. Because standing right in front of my bedroom door—half-naked, hair damp, water still dripping from his collarbone—was Nicholaus Henrik Vlatislov.

Wearing nothing but a towel slung low on his hips.

And smirking.

Of course.

Damn Nicholaus Henrik Vlatislov, indeed.

My breath caught when I realized what I was wearing—lingerie. Thin lace. No bra. Wonderful. Just wonderful.

His eyes dragged over me slowly… almost lazily… but with a hunger that made my knees weaken. From my cleavage, to my stomach, to my thighs… back up to my lips.

Like he was about to devour me whole.

“Why aren’t you going back home? Did you… sleep here? At the manor?” I asked, trying to sound composed. It came out shaky.

Nicholaus smirked deeper.

“Yes. Your father wants me to stay here for a while.”

A pause.

“Until our marriage.”

I swear to God—I almost punched him.

I forced a smile and tried to walk past him, but in a blink he grabbed my wrist, pulled me in, and pinned me against the wall. His chest was warm, almost burning, the towel barely holding on around his hips.

His gaze ate me alive.

He stared at my cleavage.

Then my neck.

Then my lips.

Then straight into my eyes.

My entire body reacted before my brain did.

God, I could feel how wet I was becoming.

“What the f**k are you doing?” I snapped, voice trembling.

Nicholaus leaned in, nose brushing my cheekbone, then my jaw, inhaling me like he was smelling a flower… or prey.

His lips ghosted my ear.

“Observing.”

Seriously?

A Greek god with fangs and zero boundaries.

He drew back just enough to look at me again—and then he smiled. A knowing, sinful smile.

“You’re a virgin, right?”

My entire body froze.

My heart stopped.

My breath vanished.

How the hell—how the hell did he know that?

My lips parted, but no sound came out.

Nicholaus tilted my chin up with two fingers, eyes dark.

“I can smell it, Anya.”

His voice dropped.

“I can feel it.”

I swallowed hard.

And he smirked again.

***

Nicholaus POV — Hemsworth Manor, Anya’s Bedroom

The way her cheeks burned when I asked…

That blush.

It confirmed what my instincts already told me.

She smelled like… spring flowers. Innocent, fresh, almost fragile. Her skin, soft and warm, sent a sharp pulse through me. Something stirred deep inside—sharp, insistent, impossible to ignore.

“You’re a virgin, right?” I asked again, softly, letting the words sink in.

Her eyes widened, pupils dilated. Her lips parted, and a faint, almost audible gasp escaped her.

“W-What? How… how do you know?” she whispered, voice shaky, trying to step back but trapped by my grip.

I let my thumb brush lightly across her jawline, forcing her to meet my gaze.

“Because I can feel it,” I said, low, deliberate.

“Your body tells me everything, Anya. Every hesitation, every heartbeat, every little secret you think is hidden.”

She swallowed hard, shivering slightly.

Her perfume, her warmth, even the subtle scent of her hair—it all pulled at something primal in me.

I leaned closer, my voice dropping even lower, teasing.

“You’re tight. Perfectly… inexperienced. Fragile. Fragile things are meant to be handled carefully… and broken.”

Her lips trembled.

She whispered, almost pleading, “N-Nicholaus… please, stop teasing me.”

I smirked, unrelenting.

“Teasing? No, this is just me observing… learning.”

Her body stiffened beneath my gaze, but I could see it—every small, involuntary reaction. Every flush.

Everything about her screamed danger… and desire.

She was 21, I was 21. Both young. Both reckless.

And in that moment, I knew…

she would never forget me.

I let my smirk linger as I pulled just slightly back, giving her a small measure of space.

“In a week,” I murmured, “I’ll decide how much of you I claim… and how fast you are in bed.”

Her eyes widened.

And in that silent, electric moment, I realized this game—this battle of wills—was only just beginning.

***

Anya POV — Moscow, Luxury Bridal Boutique

I groaned the moment we stepped into the boutique.

“Mother, you do realize I’m not exactly dying to get married, right?” I muttered, dragging my hand across the doorframe like I was physically trying to push the idea of this wedding out of my life.

Agatha Von Hemsworth, of course, ignored me entirely.

Her eyes sparkled as if she had discovered the holy grail. “Anya, darling, you must look perfect. This is not just any wedding—it’s your marriage to the future president. You must leave an impression.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I was afraid they might get stuck.

“Leave an impression?” I repeated. “Mother, I don’t even want to be married. I want vodka, loud music, and freedom—not… this.”

She didn’t even flinch. Instead, she grabbed my hand and tugged me toward the first gown on display. It was… blindingly white, covered in beads and lace, glittering under the soft chandelier light.

“Oh, this is exquisite,” she gushed, holding it up to my chest. “See? It screams sophistication and beauty.”

I squinted at the mirror and made a face.

“Screams boredom, more like. And glue, beads, and fabric hell. I can’t even move in this. I’ll look like a stiff robot doll on wheels.”

The boutique attendant cleared her throat politely.

“Perhaps we can try something more… daring?” she suggested.

I perked up instantly. “Daring? Yes. Now we’re talking. Something that doesn’t make me look like a frozen angel from a museum display. Maybe… blue? Or black? Something that screams I do what I want.”

Agatha gasped.

“Blue? Black? Anya! Wedding dresses are—”

“I know what wedding dresses are, Mother,” I interrupted sharply. “But I’m not going to be some decoration. I refuse. This isn’t a coronation; it’s my damn marriage to a man I barely know.”

She pinched the bridge of her nose.

“Anya, he’s the future president! This is about… dignity, family, legacy—”

I threw my hands in the air.

“Legacy, schmegacy! I want a dress I can breathe in. A dress I can walk in without wanting to strangle someone. A dress that won’t make me collapse halfway down the aisle screaming, ‘NOOOOO!’”

The attendant smiled nervously, nodding.

“Perhaps we can find something that balances tradition with… your personality?”

I narrowed my eyes and grinned wickedly.

“Bingo. Now we’re talking. Let’s see something that says I may be a bride, but I’m not yours to control.”

Mother groaned audibly, but I didn’t care.

This wedding was going to be hell—but at least I could pick my armor.

***

Anya POV — Bridal Boutique, Trying on Dresses

I stepped onto the platform, ignoring the soft gasp from my mother and the delicate murmur from the boutique attendant.

The first dress I tried on was… classic. Ivory silk, corset tight enough to choke a horse, tulle like a cloud of suffocation.

I stared at myself in the mirror.

“Oh. My. God. I look like a trapped swan that just realized it’s about to die.”

Mother gasped.

“Anya! You look so beautiful! Like a vision!”

I narrowed my eyes at her.

“Beautiful is one thing. Dying in a tube of silk is another. And I prefer not to faint halfway down the aisle.”

The attendant clapped her hands softly.

“Perhaps something… more daring?”

I perked up.

“Yes. Daring. Dangerous. Something that screams me.”

She held up a deep sapphire dress. The fabric clung to every curve, plunging neckline, high slit up to the thigh. My heart skipped.

“Ohhhh… now this is more like it,” I whispered. I twirled in front of the mirror.

Mother nearly fainted. “Anya! That is… inappropriate!”

I smirked. “Exactly. Let’s call it appropriate for my sanity. I refuse to look like a porcelain doll while marrying a man I barely know.”

The attendant adjusted the straps, smoothing the fabric over my shoulders.

“You look… powerful in it. Commanding.”

I tilted my head, examining myself.

“Yes. Powerful. Dangerous. Untouchable. Perfect.”

Mother sighed, covering her face. “You’re impossible.”

I grinned wickedly. “No, Mother. I’m just surviving the apocalypse you call marriage planning.”

Then, for a fleeting moment, I imagined Nicholaus seeing me in this dress… the way his smirk had haunted my dreams since that balcony encounter.

I shivered—half in fear, half in something else entirely.

“Perfect,” I whispered to myself. “This is my dress. Not his, not theirs, mine.”

And with that, I made a silent vow:

If this marriage was going to be hell… I would at least walk into it on my terms.

***

Nicholaus POV — Moscow, Presidential Office

I stood in the expansive office, the weight of the room pressing down on me like it owned me. My father, Maxim Dimitri Vlatislov, current president, sat behind the desk, hands steepled, eyes calculating.

I exhaled slowly, watching the winter sunlight slice through the blinds.

“Father,” I said, voice smooth, low, controlled. “About the marriage… and the transition.”

Maxim smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Yes, son. Soon after you wed Anya, I will step down. The presidency will be yours.”

I nodded, masking the contempt simmering beneath my calm exterior.

“And you understand, Nicholaus…” he continued, tone heavy with the weight of expectation, “this union is… transactional. Strategic. Necessary. For the country, for the lineage.”

I let a faint smirk play at the corner of my lips.

“Of course, Father. Strategic and transactional. Just how I like it.”

Because let’s be honest—I didn’t give a damn about Anya Von Hemsworth. Not her youth, not her beauty, not her fiery attitude.

I crossed the room, hands in my pockets, pacing slowly.

“If you hadn’t dangled the presidency in front of me,” I said, voice sharp, cutting, deliberate, “I wouldn’t marry her. That woman is… chaos wrapped in silk. Unpredictable. Reckless. Dangerous.”

Maxim raised an eyebrow, intrigued, but silent.

I stopped in front of the desk, leaning slightly, gaze fixed on him.

“This marriage,” I continued, “is a contract. A transaction. Nothing more. After the wedding, she will learn quickly that she’s part of the game—and I am not a man to be trifled with.”

Maxim smiled faintly, satisfied. “Good. That is why I trust you, Nicholaus. You understand power, control… and duty.”

I exhaled, letting the smoke from my cigarette curl lazily into the sunlight.

“Yes, Father. Duty. And the rest… well, the rest is merely… collateral.”

And as I looked out the window at Moscow below, I let myself think of Anya.

She had no idea what awaited her.

No idea how transactional her life had just become.

And I intended to make sure she learned—on my terms.