My Husband Is A Psychopath

Chapter 6: A Wife of A General

Anya POV — “Dragged Back by Blood, Not Choice”

I sit on the edge of the bed, tugging a blanket over my bruised knees, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal human being. My body feels like it went twelve rounds with a demon — which, honestly, is not far from the truth considering who my husband is.

“A wife of a f*****g general…” I whisper, rolling my eyes at the ceiling. “A Russian general. God must really hate me.”

I stand up, wobbling, and shuffle to the mirror. My hair looks like a crow built a nest in it. I sigh.

“My life is a mess. A whole avalanche.”

I touch my cheek, red from his stubble. “One stupid decision. One.”

But it wasn’t even a decision.

Not really.

I remember that morning too clearly — my phone ringing nonstop, Papa’s voice cold and clipped.

"Anya, pack your bags. Russia. Now."

Not please.

Not we need you.

No explanation.

Just an order.

I thought something terrible happened — an emergency, a family crisis, something urgent enough that my parents actually needed my presence after years of barely calling.

So like a dutiful daughter, like an i***t, I flew.

And walked straight into a trap I didn’t even see.

I grip the edge of the table, jaw tightening.

“I miss Vienna,” I murmur. “I miss Ava’s screaming, Enzo’s terrible espresso lectures, my balcony, my life…”

My voice cracks.

“My freedom.”

Now?

Now I’m here.

“In Russia. In this cursed estate. Married to Nicholaus Henrik Vlatislov.”

I snort, humorless.

“A f*****g Satan himself.”

I drag a hand down my face. “How the hell did my life become this?”

A knock echoes from the door — heavy, familiar, possessive.

Of course.

Because Satan never sleeps.

I mutter under my breath, “God, if You’re listening… send help. Or a helicopter. Or a bullet. Anything.”

***

Ava POV — Vienna, Chaos & Juice Stains

We were just sitting there on the couch, minding our peaceful Viennese business — me, my i***t brother Enzo, and a glass of mango juice — when the universe decided to slap us with pure comedy.

There she was.

Anya Frances Von Hemsworth.

Our spoiled, dramatic, princess‑of‑everything best friend.

Not in a club.

Not shopping.

Not screaming at someone on the phone.

But on the f*****g news.

Married.

Married in Russia.

Married to a man who looked like he eats diplomats for breakfast.

I choked so hard I spilled juice all over my white shirt.

“Oh my GOD—LOOK AT HER!” Enzo practically screamed, pointing at the TV like the dramatic clown he is.

He was laughing.

I was laughing.

The entire apartment felt like a comedy show.

Enzo grabbed the remote. “Play it again, play it again—look at her face! She looks like someone kidnapped her favorite heels.”

I wiped my shirt, still wheezing. “Kidnapped? Bro, she looks like she got sold.”

Enzo’s eyes widened. “AVA. DON’T SAY THAT.”

“But am I wrong?”

We both burst out into another wave of laughter.

Then I remembered.

That call she got.

The tone in her voice.

Her leaving Vienna like a dog being dragged to the vet.

I told her, “Girl, if your father is calling you before breakfast, it’s either a funeral or a wedding.”

Looks like I predicted the wrong one.

So, being the responsible friend I am, I texted her.

Ava: Want us to rescue you?

(With a little heart emoji because I care.)

But the moment the reply came in… I froze.

Unknown: Who are you?

I stared at my phone.

Enzo leaned over. “Is she drunk? Is she kidnapped? Is she… dead?”

Before I could reply, the number blocked me.

BLOCKED.

By Anya’s phone.

I slowly turned my head to Enzo, horror mixing with laughter.

“Enzo… I think our spoiled best friend didn’t just marry someone.”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

I pointed at the TV. “She found her f*****g beast.”

He burst into laughter again.

I followed.

Because really…

Only Anya could turn "Dad called me" into “Oops, I married a Russian demon general.”

And honestly?

We’re absolutely making popcorn for whatever comes next.

***

Nicholaus POV — Vlatislov Estate, Holding Her Phone

Her phone vibrated on the edge of the bath, the little screen lighting up in the dim room. I picked it up, curiosity sharpening like a blade.

A message. From some random number.

“Want us to rescue you?”

I smirked. Typical Vienna nonsense. Friends thinking they can play heroes.

I tapped the reply box and typed, slow and deliberate:

“Who are you?”

I didn’t wait for an answer. Why would I? The moment Anya Frances Vlatislov walked out of that bath, dripping, vulnerable, and entirely mine… everything else became irrelevant.

I tossed her phone back onto the vanity. She would deal with her friends later.

“This… this is mine now,” I murmured under my breath, voice low and dark, almost a growl.

A wife.

Of a general.

Of a Vlatislov.

And soon, when I claim the presidency, she would behave exactly as a proper Vlatislov wife should.

I crushed the cigarette in my hand, the ash scattering across the marble floor.

“Rules,” I whispered, more to myself than anyone else. “You’ll learn the rules, honey… whether you like it or not.”

I smiled.

A sharp, predatory smile.

Because she had no idea what she’d just signed up for.

***

Anya POV — Vlatislov Estate, Bath of Regret

I sank deeper into the warm water, trying to drown myself in bubbles and denial. My whole life shifted in 24 hours—my name, my country, my freedom, my future… and apparently, my pelvis.

I closed my eyes, letting my head fall back, when a cold prickle crawled down my spine.

That familiar presence.

That devil’s stare.

I opened my eyes.

There he was.

Nicholaus Henrik Vlatislov, leaning on the bathroom doorframe like Satan on his smoke break, arms crossed, eyes locked on me as if he owned the water, the tub, the air—hell, even my damn heartbeat.

I froze.

“What—what do you want now?” I snapped, hugging my knees to my chest. “Another round? Because NO. Absolutely no f*****g way. I’m still seeing STARS, and not in a romantic way.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused.

“Relax, honey. If I wanted another round, you wouldn’t be talking right now.”

“W–WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT MEAN!?” I squeaked, water splashing.

He smirked, stepping closer.

“It means you’d already be under me.”

OH GOD.

I held my breath, scooting back like the tub could swallow me whole.

“I swear, if you touch me again I’m filing for—whatever the Russian version of divorce is—immediately.”

He crouched beside the tub, eyes dark, hungry, too calm for my liking.

“There’s no divorce in this house, Anya.”

My heart plummeted.

He brushed his knuckles along the tub’s edge.

“Come out. You’ve soaked long enough.”

“No.”

“It wasn’t a request.”

“I said NO.”

His smile sharpened.

“Do I need to drag you out myself?”

I screamed internally.

Outwardly, I grabbed the bath sponge like it was a weapon.

“Oh my god—YOU ARE INSANE!”

He simply stood, towering over me as he turned away with a dark chuckle.

“Hurry up, Mrs. Vlatislov. Dinner in ten minutes.”

He left.

But his voice lingered like smoke in the bathroom.

And I, in the tub, seriously considered drowning myself for real.

Just a little.

Just temporarily.

What the hell have I done?

***

Nicholaus POV — Breakfast Hall, Vlatislov Estate

The moment I stepped out of the bathroom, leaving Anya to soak her spoiled panic away, I passed the maids fixing the sheets in our bedroom.

One of them froze.

Then the other.

Red.

A perfect stain on the pristine white linen.

I smirked.

Finally.

She’s no longer untouched.

She carries my mark now—exactly where it belongs.

A Vlatislov woman.

My wife.

My property.

Satisfied, I headed downstairs.

Breakfast was set.

Hot. Perfect. Prepared within minutes—just like how things should be done in my house.

But my wife?

Missing.

Ten minutes.

Twenty.

Forty-five.

I glared at the clock.

I have never—ever—waited for a woman for more than two minutes in my life.

But this… little chaos princess tested me for a full damn hour.

Finally, heels clicking unevenly, she appeared at the doorway.

My jaw ticked.

Because of course she would enter like that—

hair still damp, face flushed, moving like every bone in her body was protesting…

and then that outfit.

A thin silk lingerie robe clinging to her.

Light, nearly transparent.

No bra.

No shame.

No survival instinct either.

I nearly crushed the fork in my hand.

She walked toward me slowly, hips swaying—not on purpose, I could tell—but torture all the same. She sat across from me, picked up a piece of bread…

…and then lifted her damn leg under the table, resting her foot on my thigh.

My entire body froze.

She winked.

Fucking winked.

While chewing bread like some smug little brat who thought she was in control.

I leaned forward, voice low, dangerous, venom-coated.

“Anya. Move. Your. Foot.”

She pretended to think about it, still chewing.

“Hm… why? You don’t like it?”

My hands curled into fists.

“You’re testing my patience.”

She smiled even sweeter.

“Oh really? Last night you didn’t seem patient at all.”

My eye twitched.

This woman.

This menace.

This absolute disaster I married.

“Anya Frances Vlatislov,” I growled, leaning closer, “if you don’t move that foot, I will bend you over this table in front of twenty staff and make sure you can’t walk again for the next hour. Do you understand me?”

She blinked.

Then slowly—painfully slowly—lowered her foot.

“Good girl,” I said darkly, taking a sip of my coffee.

She glared.

I smirked.

Breakfast has never been this entertaining.

***

Anya POV — Breakfast Hall, Vlatislov Estate

I swear, this man sitting in front of me is someday—absolutely, one hundred percent—going to be the death of me.

I picked up the coffee cup, trying to look composed even though everything between my thighs felt like a crime scene.

I took a sip.

HOLY s**t.

My eyes almost popped out of their sockets.

It was black.

Pure, unfiltered, bitter, demon-spawn black coffee.

“WHAT THE—” I slapped a hand on my chest. “Why is it so strong?! Are you trying to kill me this early?!”

Nicholaus smirked over his cup like he had planned this since dawn.

Of course.

Of course he drinks something as evil as pure black coffee.

Of course he looks amused watching me die slowly.

Of course this is entertainment for him.

I squinted at him.

He smirked harder.

“I swear you’re enjoying this,” I muttered.

He didn’t deny it.

I set the cup down with a dramatic sigh.

“So? What now? Being a wife of a General—do I get a list? Daily tasks? Chores?” I waved my hands sarcastically. “Please don’t tell me I have to attend those boring teacup parties and stupid flower arrangements with old grannies.”

He blinked at me once.

Then twice.

And then he smiled—that slow, dangerous smile that meant I was seconds away from losing my mind.

“Well…” he drawled, voice smooth as poison, “what do you think?”

I glared.

That wasn’t an answer.

That was him messing with me.

“You know what?” I lifted my hand and gave him a bold, clear-as-day f**k you sign.

His eyebrow twitched.

He looked half-annoyed, half-amused, and fully ready to drag me back to the bedroom by my hair.

I grabbed the bottle of milk the maid had just set down and chugged it like it was life fuel.

“f**k this,” I declared, wiping my mouth like an angry toddler.

Then I stood up—slowly, painfully, legs wobbling in betrayal—and walked out of the room with whatever dignity I had left.

Behind me, I could feel his stare burning holes in my back.

He was amused.

He was annoyed.

And he was definitely plotting something.

Wonderful.

Just wonderful.

***

Nicholaus POV — Breakfast Hall, Vlatislov Estate

I watched her get up, every inch of her radiating defiance and chaos.

The way she stomped out of the breakfast hall—like she owned the place, like she could escape me—I almost laughed.

She drank milk like a child, gave me the middle finger like a dare, and strutted out like she had a crown.

Perfect.

Perfectly insane.

I put my cup down slowly, letting the silence stretch.

The maids cowered in the corner, unsure whether to breathe or faint. Smart.

I smirked.

“Anya Frances Vlatislov,” I murmured under my breath, voice low and dangerous. “You really do enjoy testing me.”

I stood, stretching, boots scraping against the marble floor.

“Let her go,” I said aloud, more to myself than anyone else. “She needs to think she has freedom.”

But I knew better.

She doesn’t.

And when she comes back—because she always does—I’ll be waiting.

Every stubborn step she takes, every bite of food she steals, every defiant look she throws my way… it’s all part of her training.

I let my smirk curl sharper, predatory.

“Little chaos princess,” I muttered.

“You’re mine. Completely. And soon, you’ll behave like a proper Vlatislov wife. But until then… enjoy your rebellion.”

I took a slow sip of my black coffee, savoring the bitterness.

The taste reminded me of her.

Wild. Untamed. Dangerous.

And deliciously mine.

The game had just begun.

***

Anya POV — Vlatislov Estate, Attempted Escape

I stormed through the mansion, my casual shirt and shorts doing nothing to hide my rage.

Phone in hand, I was done. Done with the staring, the smirks, the suffocating air, the entire hellhole that Nicholaus called home.

I burst through the hallways, past the marble statues and terrified maids, and finally reached the gate.

Freedom. Almost.

Until a man in a soldier uniform stepped in my path, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

“What… what the hell?” I hissed. “I’m leaving. Now. Move.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.

“You are not allowed to leave the estate, Madam.”

I stopped, staring at him like he had grown another head.

“What do you mean ‘not allowed’? I’m the wife of—”

“General Nicholaus Vlatislov has forbidden it,” he interrupted, voice flat, final.

I froze. My pulse quickened.

“Forbidden… BY HIM?” I yelled, incredulous. “This is Russia? What is this, some kind of prison?!”

The soldier didn’t answer. Just stood there, blocking the gate like a living wall.

I groaned, gripping my phone tighter.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me. THIS MAN. THIS. f*****g. MAN.”

I kicked at the dirt in frustration.

“Someone get me out of here! I don’t care if it’s the President himself! I don’t care! I’m walking out of this hellhole, right this second!”

The soldier tilted his head, expression cold as steel.

“You may try, Madam. But I assure you… you will fail.”

And just like that, my brief, shining hope of freedom died at the gate.

I was trapped.

With him.

Forever.

Or at least until he decided I wasn’t being useful—or fun—anymore.