My Husband Is A Psychopath

Chapter 4: Best Wishes in Hell

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.

***

Anya POV — Hemsworth Manor, Wedding Hall

The grand doors of the hall loomed ahead like the gates of some gilded prison.

I took a deep breath, adjusted the royal blue gown one last time, and stepped inside.

The room was packed with Moscow’s elite—politicians, military officers, business magnates—all waiting to witness this so-called union of power.

And there he was.

Nicholaus Vlatislov. Standing at the end of the aisle, tall, immaculate in his uniform, medals gleaming under the chandelier lights. His expression… unreadable. Calm. Dangerous. Smug.

I froze.

He didn’t blink.

He didn’t move.

He just… looked at me.

Like he was measuring every inch of me.

Every curve. Every reaction. Every ounce of my fear and defiance.

I swallowed hard, forcing my gaze forward, pretending I didn’t feel the electricity sizzling in the air between us.

Then he smirked.

Oh, of course he smirked.

That smirk.

The same one that haunted my nightmares since that balcony encounter.

I felt my cheeks flush. I clenched my fists, forcing myself to walk with as much dignity as I could muster.

My father, Augustus, whispered something to Nicholaus, and I caught the edge of his voice:

“Behave… she’s not easy.”

I wanted to scream.

I am not easy.

Nicholaus’ eyes flicked toward me, and his smirk deepened, dark and knowing.

As if he already knew exactly how to break me. Or… maybe he was already enjoying the challenge.

I sat in my chair, keeping my posture perfect, smile polite but sharp in my eyes.

Every instinct in me screamed: run.

But I couldn’t.

The officiant cleared their throat, and the ceremony began.

Words were spoken. Vows were made.

But all I could hear was the slow, deliberate heartbeat of the man sitting across from me.

Nicholaus Vlatislov. My husband.

My doom.

And maybe… just maybe… my obsession.

Because the moment our eyes met, I knew: this was war.

A war of dominance, desire, and survival.

And I was not backing down.

***

Anya POV – Wedding Dining Venue

The dining hall looked like something out of a royal gala—chandeliers glittering, crystal glasses clinking, political snakes dressed in diamonds, soldiers standing stiff like statues.

And in the middle of all that?

Me.

In my sapphire wedding dress, the dress that caused an entire hurricane of gossip among the Russian aristocrats.

Apparently, it was “too bold,” “too seductive,” “too foreign,” “too untraditional.”

Whatever. I looked gorgeous, and that was their problem, not mine.

I forced a smile as another guest approached. “Oh, Anya dear, the food is magnificent!” a lady simpered.

I flashed my practiced society smile. “Wonderful. I’ll inform the chef,” I said sweetly, even though inside I wanted to pour champagne on her wig.

Because I could see it.

Every. Single. Look.

Those society bitches eyeing me from head to toe, silently judging:

“She looks too wild.”

“She’s not refined enough.”

“How did she trap Nicholaus Vlatislov?”

“She doesn’t deserve him.”

I wanted to laugh.

“Deserve him?”

I didn’t even want him! They could have him. Please. Take the psycho general-president-to-be. I’ll pack his bags myself.

But of course—life hates me.

I tried to escape conversations by pretending to taste cake, then pretending to admire flowers, then pretending to get a phone call—

but everywhere I went, someone grabbed my arm to congratulate me, gossip, or judge me silently with their “perfect” botoxed faces.

I sighed internally.

Officially: Anya Frances Vlatislov.

Unofficially: Anya Frances Trapped-as-Hell.

I caught myself thinking about tonight…

Our honeymoon.

I shivered.

Hmm. Paris? Rome? Vienna again?

I snorted.

Yeah right.

Nicholaus doesn’t seem like the “Eiffel Tower kiss” type.

More like the “locked-up-in-a-mansion-with-no-escape” type.

Or worse… “honeymoon at military headquarters where terrorists are tortured in the basement.”

I grimaced.

“Ugh. Kill me now.”

As I forced another polite smile at another senator’s wife, I muttered quietly to myself,

“Can someone please switch lives with me? I swear I’ll give you the dress for free.”

Suddenly, I felt a presence behind me.

Tall. Cold. Electric.

I didn’t even need to turn.

Nicholaus.

Of course.

My brand-new husband had arrived.

He leaned close enough that I could feel his breath on my neck, his voice low, dark, and annoyingly smug.

“Running away in your head again, little wife?” he murmured.

I froze.

My smile stiffened.

I slowly turned to face him.

He stared down at me with that knowing gaze that made my skin heat and my irritation spike.

“Don’t worry,” he added, eyes sliding slowly down my sapphire dress, “we’ll discuss our honeymoon later. Privately.”

My stomach flipped.

Not in a romantic way—

in a “God help me” way.

I forced a laugh. “Oh great. Can’t wait for that.”

He smirked—of course he did.

“Good,” he said quietly, “because I have plans for you tonight.”

My throat went dry.

“…Fuck,” I whispered under my breath.

His smirk only grew.

***

Nicholaus POV — Wedding Dining Hall

I stood near the far end of the hall, a glass of vodka in my hand, pretending to listen to some general’s rambling about border security.

But I wasn’t listening.

I was watching her.

My wife.

Anya Frances Vlatislov.

Walking around the room in that damn sapphire dress—the dress every woman here was whispering about, the dress every man here was staring at a little too long.

I clenched my jaw.

That boutique saleswoman…

If I ever see her again, I’m putting her entire store six feet underground.

The dress wasn’t even the issue.

Hell, she could walk into our wedding completely naked and I wouldn’t bat an eye.

Her body is mine now. Fine.

But the fact that everyone else was looking—

staring at her curves, her legs, her damn cleavage—

and whispering my name?

Vlatislov’s bride.

Vlatislov’s girl.

Vlatislov’s possession.

As if she was some public exhibition.

I won’t allow that.

Not now.

Not ever.

My father approached me, leaning in. “Your wife is handling the guests well. A good match, I suppose.”

I didn’t take my eyes off her. “She attracts too much attention.”

He chuckled. “She’s young, beautiful, and new. People will talk.”

“I don’t care if they talk,” I said coldly. “I care that they look.”

My father smirked. “Possessive already? Good. Keeps her in line.”

I ignored him.

Across the hall, Anya laughed politely with a senator’s wife. But I could see it—

the stiffness in her shoulders, the fake smile, the way her fingers twitched on the stem of her champagne glass.

She didn’t want to be here.

Good.

Neither did I.

Her gaze drifted for a second until she accidentally met mine.

She froze.

I watched her swallow, her lips parting slightly.

Then she quickly looked away, pretending to admire the centerpiece.

I smirked.

She can pretend all she wants, but she feels it—

my eyes on her, my presence, my claim.

One of the generals leaned toward me.

“Your wife is quite the sight, General. That dress—”

I cut him off with a glare sharp enough to slice his tongue out.

He went silent instantly.

My fingers tightened around the glass.

“Honeymoon,” I muttered under my breath.

Yes.

Tonight I’ll take her away from these eyes, these whispers, these vultures.

Tonight she’ll learn what it means to be mine.

Not Moscow’s.

Not her father’s.

Not society’s.

Just mine.

I set my empty glass down and straightened my jacket.

Time to get my wife.

***

Anya POV — Vlatislov Estate

I KNEW it.

Every damn time I get a “hunch,” it’s like the universe screaming at me, and I stupidly ignore it—

and now here I am.

Standing in front of a military dictator mansion, aka my honeymoon prison.

Great.

Just f*****g great.

The black limousine rolled to a stop, and the giant wrought-iron gates opened like the gates of hell welcoming a fresh soul. His estate wasn’t just a house—it was a kingdom, a fortress, a whole damn empire.

And me?

Just the new captive queen.

Without privileges.

The maids lined up in two rows, heads bowed so low I thought they’d snap their necks. Twenty of them.

And a butler who looked older than the Soviet Union itself.

“Is this… normal in your mansion?” I blurted like an i***t.

Nice. First words in my honeymoon nightmare, and I sounded like a lost tourist.

Nicholaus didn’t even look at me.

Just flicked his fingers once—snapped them.

And immediately the maids straightened up like robots, bowed again, then scattered like cockroaches after the lights turn on.

I blinked.

“What the hell? Are they afraid of you?”

He didn’t answer.

He just smirked.

Of course he smirked.

He led me inside the mansion—no, the palace, the museum, the billionaire psychopath lair. Chandeliers that looked like they were stolen from Versailles. Marble floors polished enough I could see my suffering reflection.

“Do you like my mansion?” he asked, smug as hell, practically flexing the walls.

I ignored him, flipping my hair dramatically.

“I thought we were going to a bar? Why the hell are we at your estate, General Nicho…—laaaus Henrik Vlatislov?”

I added the extra dramatic pause just to annoy him.

And it worked.

He stepped closer, his hand moving to my waist—

and I slapped it. Hard.

“Do not f*****g touch me.”

His jaw twitched.

But instead of pulling back, he gripped my waist tighter, like iron, dragging me closer until my breath hitched.

Then he lowered his head near my ear, his voice low, dark, and chilling.

“Starting tonight,” he whispered,

“you will live here with me… forever.”

I froze.

Forever?

Not “for tonight.”

Not “for the honeymoon.”

Not “for a few days.”

Forever.

My stomach dropped.

My heart cracked.

My brain screamed.

Forever?

FOREVER?!

I’ll lose my sanity here!

My voice cracked as I pushed him away, “Are you—are you insane?! Forever? I’m not living here like some prisoner!”

He didn’t budge.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

He just smiled.

A slow.

Creepy.

Predatory smile.

“You’re my wife now, Anya,” he said softly.

“There is no running away.”

Oh god.

Vienna, vodka, loud parties—

I miss you.

Because this?

This mansion?

This man?

He’s going to eat me alive.

***

Nicholaus POV — Vlatislov Estate

The moment we stepped inside the mansion, she looked like she wanted to claw her own skin off and run straight into the damn woods. Good. Let her try. There is nowhere in this country she can hide from me… or from the Vlatislov name.

Anya’s heels clicked sharply on the marble as she glared at everything like it personally offended her.

“So I thought we’re going to a bar? Why the hell are we at your estate, General Nicho…laus Henrik Vlatislov?”

She said my full name like she was casting a curse.

I almost laughed.

Her attitude… cute, if she wasn’t my wife. Dangerous, now that she is.

I placed a hand on her waist—gentle, intentional. She slapped it away like I was a cockroach. My jaw clenched, and I tightened my grip, pulling her closer until I felt her breath hitch.

“Do not f*****g touch me,” she spat.

I leaned down, letting my breath brush her ear, indulging in the way she froze.

“Touching you,” I murmured, “is the least of what’s going to happen tonight.”

The maids scattered like insects the moment I flicked my fingers. Good. They should. None of them should get the wrong idea and look at what belongs to me.

Her sapphire dress glimmered under the chandelier—my eyes narrowed. That damn boutique clearly thought “eye-catching” was a compliment. If I ever see that saleswoman again—

Anya crossed her arms. “Is this normal in your mansion? All the bowing? The silence? The… cult behavior?”

I smirked.

“It’s discipline, milaya,” I corrected. “Something you clearly lack.”

She scoffed loudly. “Oh please. This place is giving dictatorship. Congratulations.”

I stepped in front of her, blocking her from moving farther into the hall.

She lifted her chin in defiance—God, she has no idea how much that provokes me.

“Why are we here?” she demanded. “Why lie? Why pretend we were going out?”

Finally, I smiled—slow, dark, and honest.

“For this,” I said simply. “For the moment you step into my house… and understand there is no going back.”

Her eyes widened—fear, anger, disbelief all tangled together.

“Starting tonight,” I said, voice low, “you will live here. With me.

Forever.”

She swallowed hard, mask cracking for just a heartbeat.

Good.

Fear suits her. It means she understands exactly what I mean.

And God help her—

I always get what I want.

***

Anya POV — The Room I Never Wanted

The door closed behind us with a soft click, but to me it sounded like a damn prison lock. His room—our room now, apparently—was huge, dark, and smelled faintly of cedar and expensive sin.

My legs trembled before I could stop them. Great. Exactly what he wants.

Nicholaus walked ahead like he owned the world—and unfortunately, a portion of it he actually does—and then he turned suddenly, stepping close. Too close.

He leaned in and sniffed my neck.

What.

The.

Actual.

HELL.

“Are you—?!” I jerked back, eyes wide. “Did you just sniff me like some psycho bloodhound?!”

He didn’t answer. He just smirked like he knew every thought I was trying to hide.

Of course he did.

Then he leaned down, lips almost brushing my ear. I froze so hard I think my soul left for a moment.

“Go and shower,” he whispered. “I can smell the last food you ate earlier.”

My jaw dropped. “Excuse me?!”

But he was already pulling away, that damned arrogant grin on his face.

“Don’t take too long,” he said, stepping out, “I don’t like waiting.”

And just like that—he left.

The door opened again and suddenly three maids slipped in like shadows, bowing so low it looked painful.

“Madam,” the eldest said softly, “we are to prepare your bath.”

One of them looked like she wanted to cry if I refused.

Oh.

Oh, he was smart.

He didn’t need to threaten me.

The pressure was all over their trembling faces.

I threw my hands up. “Fine, fine! God. Just—don’t poke or pinch me, okay? I’m a bride, not a damn melon.”

The youngest nodded so fast her bun wobbled.

They guided me toward an absurdly huge bathroom, their movements frantic, careful, too polite—it made my skin crawl.

I let them work, even as every instinct screamed for me to run.

As warm water filled the tub, I stared at my reflection.

Officially Anya Frances Vlatislov.

Against my will.

Forced into a mansion with a man who sniffed me like I was dessert and told me I would stay here forever.

My stomach twisted so hard I felt sick.

God… what will happen later?