Chapter 5: The Night the Devil Devoured Me
3029 Words
Nicholaus POV — Vlatislov Estate, Basement Playground
Finally.
Peace.
Silence—well, not silence, considering the screaming—but silence from her.
My wife apparently needed a full hour to bathe. What the hell was she even doing? Drowning herself? Crying? Stalling? Probably all three.
I exhaled sharply, rolling my shoulders, and headed down the west wing staircase—the one no one was allowed to touch. The deeper I went, the colder the air became, the house’s polished marble giving way to reinforced steel.
My sanctuary.
My playground.
My reminder that power is an art.
I reached the last door and pressed my thumb to the hidden scanner.
The heavy metal door clicked, then slid open with a hiss.
The stench of fear hit me first.
Inside, the rebels were chained—some sitting, some slumped, all trembling as if they’d seen hell and realized hell sees back.
One man screamed the moment he saw me.
“P-Please! Please! Let us go! We didn’t—we didn’t do anything to your family!”
I looked at him. Slowly. Blankly.
Then smirked.
“You did,” I said. “You existed.”
A woman thrashed against her restraints. “YOU MONSTER—!”
I raised a finger.
“Ah, ah,” I said calmly. “No shouting. You’ll tire yourself before we even start.”
A chorus of begging erupted anyway—crying, cursing, prayers to gods who don’t come to basements like this.
I pulled a cigarette from my pocket, lit it, and breathed in the burning quiet I preferred.
God, this was relaxing.
My gaze skimmed the room—not out of concern for them, but boredom—until my mind drifted to the little problem upstairs.
Anya Frances Vlatislov.
My sweet, terrified bride.
Her blush.
Her scent.
Her voice shaking when I cornered her.
The way she froze when I whispered in her ear…
I felt my lip curl into a feral grin.
“She’ll scream too,” I murmured to myself, smoke curling from my mouth.
“But for very different reasons.”
One of the rebels whimpered.
I ignored him.
Crushing the half-finished cigarette under my boot, I reached for the rack of tools on the wall.
“Alright,” I sighed, cracking my knuckles.
“Let’s make this quick. My wife will be finished soon… and I need to be upstairs for our first night.”
***
Anya POV — Vlatislov Estate, Hell’s Room
Finally.
The bath was over. My dignity? Questionable.
And the damn lingerie—why did I let those maids force me into this?
I could practically still hear them:
“Madam… if you don’t wear this, the Master will—”
And they didn’t even finish the sentence.
Traitors.
I stared at myself in the mirror, my skin still damp, the sapphire silk clinging to me like temptation itself.
“Why am I doing this?” I whispered to my reflection, wanting to cry, scream, teleport—anything.
Tonight he’d take me.
Tonight everything changes.
Tonight I officially enter hell.
My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped the perfume bottle.
“f**k… is there a fire exit here?” I muttered, glancing around like an insane person planning a prison break.
That’s when the door slammed open.
I jumped, nearly swallowing my own heart.
There he was.
General Nicholaus Henrik Vlatislov.
My husband.
My doom in human form.
He walked in like he owned my oxygen supply, expression unreadable as he started unbuttoning his uniform jacket.
Slowly.
Very.
Very.
Slowly.
My throat dried instantly.
“W-What are you doing?” I squeaked.
He didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
He let the last button fall and shrugged off the uniform—then the shirt—then the pants—until he was—
“HOLY—” I slapped a hand over my own mouth.
He was naked.
Completely.
Absolutely.
Terrifyingly.
And I… unfortunately… stared too long at that wild beast hanging between his legs.
My soul disconnected from my body.
My knees betrayed me.
That thing was not sized for humans.
That thing belonged in a museum or a crime report.
He smirked.
Then he scooped me up like I weighed nothing, and I swear I felt his—his weapon—press into my lower back.
My voice came out weak, trembling, and painfully innocent.
“W-Why the hell is that… that thing—like that?”
His lips brushed my ear, and I instantly regretted every life choice that led me to this moment.
“Something to pop your cherry soon,” he whispered.
He winked.
I died.
I truly, spiritually, emotionally flatlined.
***
Nicholaus POV — Vlatislov Estate, My Pleasure Room
The moment the door closed, the world shrank until it was only her—
Anya.
My wife.
My chaos.
My responsibility to break, mold, and claim.
I started slow, deliberately slow, kissing the delicate arch of her foot.
She tensed immediately, eyes squeezing shut like she wished to be anywhere but here.
Good.
Fear made her sweeter.
I dragged my mouth up the soft line of her calf, her thigh—her breath hitched so sharply it made me smile.
She shoved at my shoulder weakly.
“What the hell are you doing? Don’t tell me you’re going to—lick that part too?! It’s not even delicious!” she snapped.
I huffed a dark laugh.
If only she knew.
“You talk too much,” I muttered against her skin, ignoring every protest as I continued forward.
Her voice broke into a startled moan—loud, unrestrained, echoing off the walls.
I smirked.
Even the chained rebels in my basement must’ve heard that.
“Damn you! I told you—don’t do that!” she yelled, pushing at me again.
I lifted my head, lips wet, amusement flickering in my chest.
Her glare was fire.
Untamed.
Beautiful.
But defiance only made me want to tame her more.
I rose over her, bracing my weight on the bed as she blinked up, pupils wide, chest rising quickly.
“Just close your eyes,” I told her, voice rough, low, possessive.
“And feel it, honey.”
Her whole body went rigid the moment I entered her world—her silence replaced by a strangled gasp, eyes flying open in shock.
She stared at me as if something impossible had just happened.
As if she couldn’t comprehend how I fit inside her life, her body, her future.
Good.
Let her understand the man she married.
Her nails dug into my neck, clinging to me like I was the only thing keeping her from breaking apart.
Her small frame trembled beneath mine with every movement, with every breath.
I buried my face in her neck, inhaling that addictive scent of hers—
sweet, fresh, young.
Something inside me snapped with the force of wanting.
She let out another unrestrained sound and I felt her shiver.
Her voice cracked, desperate, trembling:
“Is it… over?”
I lifted my head, meeting her wide, disbelieving eyes.
A slow, cruel smile curved my lips.
“Over?” I echoed.
“No, honey. I’m nowhere near done.”
She froze.
Good.
The night was long—
and I wasn’t planning to let her forget any part of it.
***
Anya POV — Vlatislov Estate, His Ridiculous Endless Night
I swear at some point I blacked out—not fainted, not slept—just shut down like a dying phone.
And yet…
when my eyes fluttered open…
He.
Was.
Still.
Moving.
Like the damn Terminator of husbands.
My voice croaked out before my brain even woke up:
“WHAT— you’re still—?!”
Nicholaus didn’t even look winded. His hair was messed up, yes. His breath heavy, yes. But he looked… energized.
My doom in human form.
He smirked—because of course he did—and pressed a kiss on my shoulder.
“Welcome back, honey.”
“I passed out!” I protested, hitting his shoulder. “Normal people STOP when someone PASSES OUT!”
He gave a low chuckle.
Infuriating.
Deep.
Smug.
“You fainted for about eight minutes,” he corrected calmly.
“Not enough reason for me to stop.”
I stared at him in horror.
“That’s— that’s a medical emergency! I could’ve died!”
He brushed my hair from my face like I just said something adorable.
“You’re fine,” he murmured. “Look. You’re still breathing.”
“That’s because GOD is on my side,” I snapped.
Then I noticed it—
a soft glow of morning light creeping through the curtains.
My eyes widened.
“Is that— the sun?”
My voice cracked.
“The sun is out. Nicholaus. The sun is out. Are you insane—?”
He grinned down at me, entirely too proud of himself.
“I told you, Anya,” he whispered, leaning closer, “I wasn’t finished.”
“Oh God,” I muttered, covering my face with both hands, “I need a priest.”
“No,” he said, smirk deepening as he pinned my wrists gently above my head,
“you need stamina.”
I groaned.
“I hate you.”
His lips brushed my ear.
“No, honey,” he whispered, voice dark and amused,
“you’re married to me.”
And that was exactly when I realized:
I would never survive this man.
***
Nicholaus POV — Vlatislov Estate, My Satisfaction
The sun was already sliding into the room, warming the edge of the sheets, but all I cared about was the woman beneath me—
my wife,
my little spoiled princess who thought she could handle one night with me.
She woke up mid‑movement, eyes snapping open like she had seen death itself.
That alone nearly made me laugh.
She glared up at me with the most adorable, horrified expression.
“WHAT— you’re still—?!”
I raised a brow, amused.
Her voice was hoarse, trembling, exhausted.
Good.
She was finally learning the difference between fairytales and marriage to a Vlatislov.
“Welcome back, honey,” I murmured.
She smacked my shoulder—weakly.
Very weakly.
“That is NOT welcome back! You’re insane! Normal people stop when someone PASSES OUT!”
I chuckled.
Her outrage was cute.
Infuriated kitten cute.
“You weren’t out that long,” I said simply. “Eight minutes.”
Her jaw dropped like she might cry or kill me—or both.
“EIGHT MINUTES?! Nicholaus, that’s not a nap! That’s me visiting the afterlife!”
I didn’t stop moving. I didn’t need to.
Her body clung to me without her noticing—instinct, natural, mine.
“You’re fine,” I replied, brushing my thumb across her cheek. “If you weren’t, I’d know.”
“God kept me alive,” she hissed.
“Mm,” I leaned down, lips brushing her collarbone,
“no. That was me.”
She stared past me suddenly, eyes widening at the light slipping through the curtains.
“Is that— the sun?!” she whispered, horrified.
“The SUN is out, Nicholaus! Are you a monster?!”
I met her eyes.
Slowly.
Smirking.
“You married me,” I reminded her.
She groaned and covered her face.
“I need a priest.”
I pinned her wrists above her head again, leaning down as her breath caught.
“No, Anya,” I said softly, threateningly gentle.
“You need to get used to me.”
Her heart was racing—fear, pleasure, anger, all tangled together.
She still didn’t understand that she was mine now.
Completely.
Legally.
Personally.
Physically.
I lowered my mouth to her ear.
“And I’m still not finished.”
Her whisper came out broken, defeated:
“I hate you.”
I smiled, slow and wicked.
“No,” I corrected,
“you just can’t escape me.”
***
Anya POV — Vlatislov Estate, Aftermath
I swear…
I swear on every saint, angel, vodka bottle, and nightclub DJ in Europe—
I died last night.
Actually, no.
I died, resurrected, died again, saw the sun, bargained with God, and then died one more time for good measure.
I lay there, staring at the ceiling like a war veteran remembering the trenches.
My soul…
my knees…
my dignity…
all gone.
Absolutely gone.
My thighs were trembling like I’d run a marathon carrying a refrigerator.
My voice? Gone.
My brain? Gone.
My ability to stand? Let’s not talk about it.
I looked to the left—
he was gone.
Thank god.
The devil left the room to torment someone else.
I dragged myself upright with the strength of a dying grandma.
“Holy mother of waffles…” I whispered, trying to pull my hair out of my face.
“I need crutches. And a therapist. And maybe an exorcist.”
Every small movement reminded me why I hated him.
Why I should’ve run away.
Why I should’ve faked a coma when my father called me home.
The door opened.
I immediately tensed—
was he back?!
Round fifty?!
No, please, no.
My soul cannot respawn one more time.
But thank god—
it was just a maid pushing a cart.
She bowed deeply, eyes down, like she knew exactly what happened here.
Like the walls echoed last night.
“Madam… breakfast in bed,” she said gently, placing food on a small table.
I attempted to sit like a normal person.
Failed.
Ended up rolling sideways like a dying sea lion.
The maid didn’t react.
She must’ve seen this before.
Poor women.
“Where is he?” I croaked, reaching for a glass of water like I’d been wandering the Sahara desert.
“In the training grounds, Madam. General Nicholaus began drills at dawn.”
DAWN.
DAWN.
While I was recovering like a defeated gladiator, my husband was out there doing push‑ups or killing people or whatever psychopaths do at sunrise.
I took a sip of water, glaring at nothing.
“I hate that man,” I muttered.
The maid said nothing.
Smart.
Anyone who says otherwise probably gets fired.
Or buried.
I inhaled sharply, clutching the sheets.
“Okay. I can escape,” I whispered to myself.
“Wheelchair. Parachute. Maybe I can crawl. Or play dead.”
But the moment I swung one leg off the bed, pain shot up my spine like lightning.
“Nope,” I squeaked, collapsing back down.
“I’m trapped.”
So there I was,
Anya Frances Vlatislov,
Prime Minister’s daughter,
spoiled princess of Vienna nightlife…
Now reduced to a shaking sandwich of pain and humiliation in the bedroom of a Russian warlord.
I dragged the blanket over my face.
“Someone kill me,” I groaned.
Unfortunately, knowing my husband…
he’d take that as a suggestion.
***
Nicholaus POV — Vlatislov Estate, Training Grounds
The morning air was cold.
The kind of cold that made lesser men shiver.
My soldiers lined up in formation, rigid, alert, terrified—
as they should be.
I stood before them, unbothered, cigarette between my lips, shirtless because I preferred the cold.
Cold keeps you sharp.
Alive.
Unlike my wife, who was probably still tangled in sheets, glaring at the ceiling, cursing my existence.
Good.
A man should be unforgettable.
“General!”
My lieutenant barked, saluting stiffly.
I flicked my cigarette to the dirt.
“Run drills. Full formation. No breaks,” I ordered.
The entire unit stiffened.
One man swallowed loudly, earning a sharp kick from his superior.
I walked along the line, boots crunching the gravel, eyes scanning everything they did wrong.
Every weakness.
Every flaw.
Last night’s images kept slipping back into my mind—
her flushed face,
her trembling hands,
her voice cracking with those half‑moans she tried to hide.
God.
Her scent.
I almost smiled.
Almost.
Instead, I barked at a captain who misplaced his footing.
“Fix your stance before I break your legs and realign them myself.”
“Yes, General!”
My father appeared near the training field, hands behind his back, watching me as if calculating how soon I’ll take his throne.
“You look unusually… satisfied this morning,” he remarked.
I didn’t respond at first.
Instead, I watched my soldiers struggle under the weight of their rifles.
“Last night was productive,” I said simply.
My father hummed, eyes narrowing slightly.
“Your wife is adjusting, I hope.”
Adjusting.
If he had heard her screams last night—
the mixture of anger, shock, pleasure, and curses—
he’d know she was doing far more than adjusting.
“She’ll learn,” I said.
“She’d better. A Vlatislov wife has responsibilities.”
Responsibilities.
Yes.
To obey.
To stay quiet.
To stay alive.
“She will,” I replied.
My father smirked.
“Good. Because the political council expects your public appearance with her next month. They want to see the future First Lady.”
I imagined her—
rolling her eyes,
dressed in something too tight,
driving me insane in front of the cameras—
And I felt heat rise again.
“She’ll be ready,” I said.
Though "ready" wasn’t the word.
She would be mine—
completely shaped, molded, broken in if she fought back.
One soldier collapsed to his knees.
I aimed my gun at him without hesitation.
“Stand,” I said.
He forced himself up, shaking violently.
I lowered the gun, unfazed.
Weakness has no place here.
Not in my army.
Not in my country.
Not in my house.
And definitely not in my wife.
“She’s awake by now,” my father commented, tone casual. “Shouldn’t you check on her?”
I exhaled, long and slow.
“Oh,” I murmured, smirking,
“I know she’s awake.”
And I knew she was cursing me, plotting escape, crawling mentally toward freedom.
Let her.
It made things more entertaining.
Without looking at my father, I added:
“I’ll check on her when I’m done.”
When I’m done breaking men.
Then I’ll go back to breaking her.
- Writer
