Page 28 of Where the Dark Knelt (Worshipped by Darkness #1)

The only thing I still couldn’t rid myself of were those dreams, those erotic dreams that clung to me even after years of prayer.

But as long as I didn’t act upon them, nothing happened.

My body simply existed on its own, separate from my mind, especially in sleep.

Over the years, even these dreams came less frequently.

The memories blurred and faded away, dissolving into a darkness where nothing remained.

Absolutely nothing. But even that emptiness brought a quiet sense of calm.

Yes, sometimes I still missed love. I missed the feeling of love in my soul and in my body, especially the love of a partner.

After so many years, I could barely remember what it felt like to be kissed, to be held intimately, to be touched with desire and tenderness.

All those sensations were forgotten, turned into the ashes of memory.

And with each passing year, the certainty grew that love would never come to me again.

And that was fine. After I take my vows, there will never be a relationship for me, no lover’s arms or whispered promises, only God. Only devotion.

Sometimes, the thought sent a chill through me. But at the same time, it brought a strange calm. After all, if there is no relationship, there can be no heartbreak. No pain. No disappointment. No betrayal.

If there is no love, there is no problem… right?

I smiled faintly to myself at that thought and let out a slow breath, pushing these lingering questions away. It was better not to think about such things. Better to remain in this quiet emptiness, where nothing could hurt me anymore.

After seeing off the last parishioner of the monastery today, we only opened our doors on weekends, I felt like I simply collapsed from fatigue.

As nuns, of course, we weren’t permitted to hear formal confessions, not in the traditional sense. But sometimes, somehow, it happened anyway. People poured their hearts out without even meaning to. We just listened.

Priests rarely visited our mountain monastery, and when they did, it wasn’t for confession only.

They came for the architecture, the tranquility, the personal connection we offered to each soul who wandered up the steep roads.

There was also the cemetery, sacred ground where only select monks and seekers were buried.

People came looking for something they couldn’t name: forgiveness, guidance, or simply a moment of peace.

We had joined this monastery ourselves to find that same peace, to find God within silence, within ourselves, and to start a new life.

But on weekends, the monastery became something else too.

People traveled up just to hear our choir sing.

It felt, at times, more like a sacred performance than prayer.

And yet, even that had its own grace. Music softened hearts, led people closer to faith, or simply gave them a smile, a moment of beauty…

sometimes even a hug if that’s what they were searching for.

So yes, sometimes we accepted people’s confessions, not officially, but in spirit. We listened. We didn’t offer much advice, not directly. Only prayerful words, soft hints, fragments of scripture… something they could hold onto on the way back down the mountain.

I was extinguishing the candles, those set for the dead, for the repose of souls, for health, dreams fulfilled, love found, fertility prayers, and so many other quiet hopes. We had several altars with rows of candles spread throughout the great hall, and I was working my way through the last one.

As usual, I collected the used candles in a basin.

We melted them down afterward to make new ones.

It was a thoughtless, habitual task, but a necessary one, precious wax was expensive and we couldn’t afford to waste it.

The monastery ran only on parishioner donations, meager funds allocated by the city, and income from what we produced and sold ourselves — candles, soaps and ointments, fruit from the garden, wine, exorcism sessions for possessed and even enchanted messages or written prayers.

There was work here, yes, but not the soul-draining kind, there was no pressure to make a thousand deals a day, no endless calls pushing pointless services for some faceless corporation.

Just thinking of it made something inside me jolt.

“You have to make a thousand deals a day...” The memory rang through my head like a bell, and I flinched, dropping a candle. Hot wax splattered my finger.

“Hhh!” I hissed through my teeth and bent down, the sting still throbbing.

The candle had cracked, and one of its halves had rolled away down the stone aisle. I followed it with my eyes and that’s when I saw them.

Boots.

Big black leather boots. Not the kind we ever saw up here. Thick-soled, heavy, like something a biker or rocker would wear. What were they called again?

I scratched at my eyebrow, trying to dig through layers of memory from another life.

Berets? No... no, berets are hats...

My gaze rose. Black leather pants hugged long, elegant legs in a cut just loose enough to hint at motion and his bulge... something that I shouldn’t have noticed. My eyes widened, and heat flooded my cheeks.

Why did I always have to blush at the worst times?

I mentally scolded myself — Argh, get a grip! — but my curiosity had already betrayed me. I kept looking.

A black leather jacket. A thick silver belt buckle in the shape of some kind of horned demon. A black turtleneck. And then...

A helmet.

Jet black, smooth, and covering the stranger’s entire face. No visor. No eyes. Just a dark, faceless sheen staring back at me.

“Sir, we’re already closed…” I said calmly, though my voice carried the edge of weariness.

He tilted his head to the side, watching me through the dark glass of his helmet, though “watching” wasn’t quite the right word. I couldn’t see his eyes. Couldn’t see anything behind that pitch-black visor.

But he was clearly a man. Very tall, easily two meters, maybe more, and broad in a way that made me feel impossibly small beside him. I had the sudden urge to curl into myself, to fold down and disappear... but also—

“I need to speak out,” he said.

“…But I don’t,” I exhaled, rubbing my temples. Fatigue clung to my bones like damp clothes. I closed my eyes and lowered the basin full of melted, yellow candles to the floor beside the altar.

“If you’re going to pray,” I said without opening my eyes, “take off your helmet. I still need to see the one I’m listening to. Otherwise… well, it’s not exactly godly, you know?”

A pause.

Then his voice again, smooth, deeply amused. “What about secret confessions in your profession?”

I cracked one eye open. “I’ve already seen you,” I replied flatly. “And if we go into the booth now, it wouldn’t make sense, would it?”

He let out a short laugh. Not mocking. Almost... charmed?

Without another word, he reached up and began to undo the fasteners at the base of the helmet. Each movement was deliberate, slow, as if he knew I was watching and I was. I couldn’t look away.

He lifted the helmet from his head. Inch by inch, skin revealed beneath dark matte steel.

First the strong curve of his jaw. Then full lips, the shape of cheekbones that could have been carved by wind and time, and finally his eyes — dark green, unreadable, something flickering inside them that was almost too alive.

The two piercings on his bottom lip glistened like snake fangs in the sunlight, and the scar slashing through his left eyebrow only seemed to accentuate his raw masculinity.

I gasped, startled by how beautiful he was, he was striking in a way that tugged at something deep inside me.

He reminded me of someone, though I couldn’t quite place who.

Still, I was certain of one thing: I had never seen anyone like him before.

Never anyone so breathtaking. Never anyone like this.

My breath caught in my throat.

I watched him with my mouth slightly open, entirely forgetting where I was, who I was supposed to be. Something inside me stirred, sharp and hot and horribly familiar.

I didn’t know what was happening to me but that damn erotic dream I’d had this morning had already shaken something loose in my chest, something I thought I’d buried.

And now here he was, standing before me like a specter from another world, one I thought I’d left behind.

Oh my God…

When he finally removed his black helmet, I gasped out loud, involuntarily.

He was beautiful. Devastatingly so.

Golden-blond hair spilled down to his jawline, tousled and flattened in places from the helmet.

He gave his head a gentle shake, like he was trying to fix it, but it only made it worse — worse, and somehow better.

The strands caught the last amber light of the setting sun through the high stained-glass windows, glowing like molten silk.

But it was his eyes that nearly undid me.

Green, impossibly green. Reflecting fire, shadows, life.

He looked at me, and not only did my heart hammer wildly in my chest, but it was as if every part of me responded with humiliating urgency.

But it wasn’t just my heart that reacted with such fervor to his presence.

I could feel my clit pulsing wildly, my core clenching, as if awakening from a deep slumber.

A rush of heat flooded my veins, pooling between my thighs, and I swore I could feel my panties growing damp, the fabric clinging to my folds.

I flushed, a deep, telling blush staining my cheeks as I gaped at him, my mouth falling open in awe and disbelief.

My breath hitched. My knees weakened. And my entire body pulsed with something hot and hungry and absolutely not holy.

Oh, God…

I could feel heat pooling between my legs fast and intense. My thighs pressed together, uselessly. Shame surged up my spine, but there was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide from what I was feeling.