My Husband Is A Psychopath

Chapter 9: My Disastrous Solyanka

Anya POV – Vlatislov Estate, Dining of Purgatory

I swear, when I placed the steaming bowl of solyanka in front of Nicholaus, I was ready to pass out right there—face first into the table, preferably.

Not only was I nervous…

I was sleep-deprived, mentally unstable, and running on pure trauma from last night’s Olympic-level marathon he calls “making love.”

(He should be arrested.)

I watched him lift the spoon.

My soul hovered above my body.

My mother-in-law sat across from us, smiling like she was watching a romance movie.

Nicholaus took one sip.

One.

Sip.

Then he looked up at me… and smiled.

“It’s delicious,” he said.

I blinked.

My brain simply refused this information.

“Delicious?” I repeated slowly. “As in edible? As in not poison? As in… you’re not dying?”

He chuckled, taking another spoonful.

“Yes, Anya. Delicious.”

I leaned closer, whispering sharply, “Are you lying to me? Because I tasted it. And I know I cooked a disaster. Don’t gaslight me.”

He suppressed a laugh. “I’m not lying.”

I squinted at him like a detective.

“It tasted like boiled despair earlier,” I hissed. “And pickled depression.”

He shook his head, amused. “It’s really good. You did well.”

My mother-in-law clapped her hands happily.

“Oh, I knew it! See, Anya? Cooking is about love.”

I shot Nicholaus a death glare.

“Did you threaten the soup?”

“Did you threaten the laws of physics?”

“Explain.”

He chuckled again and leaned slightly toward me. “Maybe I just like everything you make.”

I deadpanned.

“Even when it tastes like tragedy?”

“Especially then,” he smirked.

I groaned and flopped back onto my chair.

“I swear if you’re lying out of pity—”

He reached out, brushing his fingers along my hand.

“I don’t lie to you, Anya.”

I froze.

Okay.

Now I was embarrassed.

And… maybe blushing.

My mother-in-law giggled, whispering loudly enough for everyone to hear:

“Oh, he likes your cooking and your company. That means he is ready for babies~”

I choked on air.

“MAMA!” Nicholaus barked.

I slammed my forehead on the table with a loud thud.

This wasn’t dinner.

This was Purgatory.

And I was the main course.

***

Nicholaus POV – Vlatislov Estate, Bedroom

I lied.

Of course I lied.

That solyanka tasted bitter.

Not just bitter—chemically bitter.

Like she boiled sadness, added despair, sprinkled dried trauma, then mixed it with… what, vinegar? Was that vinegar? Lemon? Battery acid?

I almost vomited right there at the table.

I had to swallow it fast before my soul escaped my body.

My mother told me earlier she watched Anya cook it six times.

Six.

Attempts.

I don’t know whether to be proud or terrified.

Kitchen… is not for her.

Or maybe she’s a weapon sent by her Prime Minister father to dismantle the Russian military from inside—via food poisoning.

Whatever the case, I had to say it was delicious.

If I told her the truth, she’d either cry, quit cooking forever, or burn the estate down in humiliation.

Maybe all three.

Now, when I entered our bedroom, she was already asleep—sprawled across the bed like a dead soldier after battle.

Her hair was a mess, her mouth slightly open, breathing softly.

My fault.

For f*****g her for twelve straight hours last night.

I smirked at the memory.

I stood beside the bed and muttered under my breath, “Poor girl. She didn’t even stand a chance.”

Sighing, I bent down, carefully sliding one arm beneath her back and the other under her knees. She didn’t even stir—too exhausted, too drunk earlier, and too abused by those ridiculous aristocracy lessons.

As I lifted her, she mumbled in her sleep.

“N—Nicholaaaauuus… you… owe me… breakfast… no more cooking… I swear… I’ll kill you…”

I snorted. “You? Cook breakfast? God forbid.”

She groaned and nuzzled into my chest like a kitten.

I froze.

Then my voice softened without my permission.

“Sleep. You’ve earned it… wife.”

I carried her toward the pillows.

“She’ll kill me when she wakes up,” I muttered with a grin. “But that’s fine. She’s cute when she’s angry.”

***

Anya POV – Vlatislov Estate, Bedroom

I opened my eyes slowly, expecting the sweet relief of an empty room.

Silence. Peace. Freedom.

Nope.

Nicholaus was still here.

In the same room.

Breathing like a predator beside me.

I groaned, burying my face in the pillow.

“f**k…” I muttered. “It’s the weekend… and he’s staying for two whole days.”

The events of yesterday hit me like a freight train.

The endless lessons, the solyanka disaster, the constant looming presence… and of course, the nightmare we had shared that made me question every fiber of my being.

I peeked at him.

He was sprawled lazily on his side, smirking like he owned the entire estate—which, well, technically, he did.

I whispered, mostly to myself, “Why is this happening to me? Why didn’t I stay in Vienna? Why did Dad have to ‘call me back for an emergency’?”

He stirred slightly, half-opening one piercing eye.

“You awake, wife?” he asked, voice lazy, teasing, dripping with amusement.

I glared at him. “Don’t call me that. Not yet.”

He stretched, yawned, and smirked wider. “Oh, I think it fits. You’ve already earned it.”

I buried my face deeper in the pillow, muttering, “I want my life back. I want my freedom. I want—”

He interrupted, voice low and dangerous, but playful.

“Don’t worry, darling. I plan to make these two days… unforgettable.”

I groaned louder. “God, I’m doomed.”

This weekend was officially hell on earth.

***

Nicholaus POV – Vlatislov Estate, Their Bedroom

She was beneath me again.

God help me—if her glare had actual power, I would’ve been six feet under, buried with full military honors, with my mother crying over my grave and Anya spitting on the soil.

Her eyes were sharp, furious, burning fire straight into my skull as I moved inside her.

Every thrust earned me another murderous look, another silent threat, another promise of death in those darkened irises.

I couldn’t help it—I laughed.

A low, breathy chuckle against her neck.

“Stop looking at me like that,” I murmured, kissing the corner of her jaw.

She hissed, gripping the sheets. “Then stop doing this—”

I caught her mouth in a kiss just to shut her up, swallowing that tiny gasp she didn’t mean to give me.

When I pulled back, her glare was even sharper, cheeks flushed, eyes war-torn.

“If looks could kill,” I whispered, brushing a thumb over her lower lip, “I’d be a dead man by now.”

She tried to smack my chest. I caught her wrist easily, pinning it above her head, my voice dipping low.

“But you won’t kill me,” I breathed, leaning in. “You want me. Even if you hate me.”

“I hate you,” she spat.

“Mm,” I smirked, rolling my hips deeper, feeling her whole body tense around me. “Your body disagrees, sweetheart.”

Her breath hitched—she couldn’t help it.

I felt her fight it and fail.

I kissed her again, slower this time.

Her eyes fluttered shut, but the glare was still lingering in her eyebrows.

“I swear,” I murmured against her lips, “the way you look at me… You could end nations.”

Another thrust, another stifled gasp from her.

“But you won’t end me,” I whispered. “You’re mine. Whether you like it or not.”

And God help me—

I loved the way she hated me for it.

***

Anya POV – Vlatislov Estate, Lost in Hallway

I swear—I swear that man is the reason I want to throw myself off the balcony.

Three.

Three f*****g times he came inside me, and he just stood up afterward like he finished a light jog. Even had the audacity to wink before disappearing like a Russian Batman.

And now?

I’m stuck wandering this cursed palace fortress hellhole.

Left turn—nope.

Right turn—another painting of some dead Vlatislov staring into my soul.

Down the carpeted hall—nothing but soldiers pretending I don’t exist.

Then I saw it.

A staircase.

Leading down.

To the basement.

I grinned.

Of course the forbidden area would tempt me like a damn siren call.

So like the curious i***t I am, I crept down the stairs, quietly enough to impress a spy movie agent. The door was slightly open—perfect, right? A sign from the universe saying “go ahead, Anya, ruin your own life.”

I slipped inside.

And holy hell…

It was massive.

The walls were filled with paintings—generations of Vlatislov men and women staring down like judgmental portraits from some villain movie. A whole family tree of scary ancestors with sharp cheekbones and murder eyes.

Then I noticed it.

More doors.

Too many doors.

What is this—a dungeon? A museum? A prison?

I walked deeper as if I owned the place (I don’t, sadly).

Then—

A scream.

A real, human, agonizing scream.

My blood turned to ice.

“What the fu—”

I inched toward the sound, heart pounding in places I didn’t know could pound. I peeked through the crack of one door but before I could see anything—

A shadow blocked the light.

Nicholaus.

Standing right in front of me like I’d summoned the devil by saying his name.

Oopsie.

Wrong move, Anya.

“What… was that?” I demanded, voice trembling even though I tried to sound brave.

He stared at me—cold, hard, unamused.

Then without warning, he threw me over his shoulder like I weighed nothing.

“Nicholaus! Put me down—”

“You shouldn’t be here,” he growled, gripping my thigh possessively as he started walking. “Sneaking around will get you hurt.”

I opened my mouth to argue but—

SMACK.

He slapped my ass so hard I yelped.

“HEY! You psycho!”

“That’s for ignoring the rules,” he said coolly.

I kicked my legs in protest. “You keep spanking me like that, I swear one day I’m gonna—”

“You’re going to behave,” he interrupted calmly, “and stay out of the basement.”

I hit his back with my fist. “I heard screaming!”

“Not your concern.”

His voice dropped—dark, commanding.

“Ever.”

“Why? What do you do down here?! Kill people?! Torture someone?!”

Silence.

Cold silence.

My heart jumped into my throat.

Then he finally spoke, calm but deadly:

“Don’t test me, Anya.”

He carried me all the way upstairs like a kidnapped potato while I cursed him in every language I knew.

And damn him—

I still felt that stupid sting on my ass.

***

Nicholaus POV – Vlatislov Estate, Basement Stairs

She almost saw it.

She almost saw me.

Not the uniform.

Not the general.

Not the husband I force myself to play in front of her.

But the real thing that rots underneath.

The screaming from the cell echoed for a second too long—enough to reach her ears, enough to pull her curious little feet into the one place she should never, ever step into.

The basement.

My basement.

My sanctuary.

My purge room.

My darkness.

And she—my reckless, stubborn wife—wandered right toward it like a moth flying into fire.

When I saw her standing there, wide‑eyed, clutching the doorframe, the blood drained from my face.

If she took one more step, if she opened the door even an inch wider…

She’d see the chains.

The stains.

The faces of the rebels I keep alive solely for their screams.

She’d see the thing I’ve been hiding since I signed her name on the marriage contract.

I caught her just in time—my shadow swallowing her curiosity before it swallowed her whole.

Her voice trembled when she asked, “What was that?”

And for a split second, I almost answered.

But she doesn’t get to know that part of me.

Not yet.

Not when she still looks at me with fear and anger and… something else I can’t explain.

Not when the truth would break whatever thin thread ties her to me.

So I locked my jaw, scooped her up, and dragged her away from the door she should never open.

She struggled—kicking, cursing, hitting my back like she could beat the devil out of me.

Good.

Let her fight.

Let her hate me.

Better that than letting her see the monster she married.

When I threw her onto my shoulder and spanked her, it wasn’t just punishment—it was distraction.

A way to make her mind spin somewhere else, anywhere else, except the truth lurking behind that basement door.

She has no idea how close she was.

She has no idea what I become down there.

She has no idea…

How much darker things get when the door closes.

I sigh, running a hand through my hair as the screams below finally fade.

Anya… stay out of the basement.

Because if you see the real me—

There will be no turning back.

***

Anya POV – Vlatislov Estate, Dragged-Away-From-Hell Basement

I crossed my arms so hard I swear my bones cracked, glaring at him like he just stole my last brain cell—which honestly, after last night’s activities, he probably did.

Nicholaus stood there, arms folded, jaw tight, eyes cold.

That stupid “I‑own‑this‑world” stance of his.

"You. You’re off limits in my basement.”

His voice dropped, stern enough to scare a demon.

I raised my brow so high it practically flew to heaven.

“Why? What are you hiding there?”

I squinted at him.

“Are you watching porn?”

His lips twitched—oh no, he’s smirking.

This is bad.

“What if I am?” he leaned closer, the devil incarnate.

“Do you want to join?”

I choked on my own spit.

“Join?! Are you insane?! Why would I—NO. Absolutely not. Go watch your weird Russian porn alone.”

I shoved his chest, which did nothing because apparently he’s built out of military-grade granite.

But the truth?

That scream from earlier…

That wasn’t pleasure.

That wasn’t adult content.

That was agony.

Raw, horrifying agony.

Someone was not having a good time down there.

Someone was being… ripped apart.

My heart thudded uncomfortably.

But hell no—NO—I’m not opening that door again.

I’m not ready to discover a collection of dead bodies or whatever insane s**t this man hides.

I sighed, turning away, waving the air dramatically.

“Fine. Whatever. Enjoy your dungeon. I don’t care. Just—keep your horror movie sound effects down next time. I almost peed my shorts.”

He chuckled behind me.

Of course he did.

Dammit.

***

Nicholaus POV – Vlatislov Estate, Weekend of Retribution

She wants to trespass in my basement?

Fine.

Then she can spend her whole weekend paying for it.

I leaned back on the velvet couch, arms folded, watching her struggle at the center table like a confused kitten trying to solve advanced physics.

“You said you learned flower arrangement,” I reminded her, my voice smooth but sharp enough to cut glass.

“So show me. Impress me.”

She glared at me with pure murder in her eyes before grabbing a handful of orchids and roses like she was strangling them in revenge.

She started jamming flowers into the vase.

Wrong.

Crooked.

Chaotic.

An absolute m******e.

I smirked.

“Anya.”

My tone was calm, almost bored.

“Are you… arranging them or committing floral homicide?”

She froze and turned slowly, lips thinning.

“This is arranged.”

I raised a brow.

“It looks like you shoved everything in there hoping the vase would pray for salvation.”

Her jaw dropped.

Then she grabbed another flower and stuffed it in aggressively.

I watched, amused.

“You attended the lesson, didn’t you?”

She snapped, “YES.”

I leaned forward, elbows on my knees.

“And this is the result?”

A chuckle slipped out.

“My mother would faint. Actually—no. The flowers would faint first.”

She growled under her breath, tossing the scissors on the table.

I continued, deliberately:

“Next. Teacup etiquette. Show me how you serve tea.”

Her eye twitched so hard I almost laughed.

She grabbed the pot with the grace of a drunk soldier, poured tea like she was watering a dying plant, and clattered the cup in front of me.

I stared at the cup.

Then at her.

“Amazing,” I said dryly.

“You managed to do everything wrong in three seconds.”

She hissed, “Are you ALWAYS like this?”

I smirked.

“Only when my wife trespasses in my basement.”

She turned bright red—equal parts fury and embarrassment.

Good.

She should remember she is mine—and my rules aren’t optional.

“Next,” I said calmly, crossing my legs.

“Cooking. You made solyanka yesterday. Make something now.”

Her eyes nearly popped out.

“I JUST learned that yesterday!”

I shrugged.

“Then consider this your weekly exam.”

She threw her hands in the air dramatically.

“You’re TORTURING me!”

I leaned back, satisfied.

“Exactly.”

This weekend will be hell for her.

And that’s the price she pays for opening the wrong door.