Page 29 of Where the Dark Knelt (Worshipped by Darkness #1)

And then I realized my mouth was open.

He noticed.

A gloved hand reached out slowly, not to harm, but to hush. He touched my chin with surprising gentleness and placed one finger against my lips.

“What did you see?” he whispered, his voice low, husky, dangerous and magnetic. “An angel… or something else?”

Then he smiled — no, he laughed — a soft, rich laugh that somehow made my soul laugh along with it, like I’d been struck by something ancient and intimate. I couldn’t speak. My tongue felt useless in my mouth, my brain still sizzling with static.

Usually, only the elderly or devout passed through our doors. Quiet, respectful. Easy to resist. But him…

He wasn’t holy.

He was a temptation, standing there like a dark god framed in light.

A demon.

I internally cursed myself, scowled, tried to ground my thoughts, but I couldn’t stop the wild storm churning inside me. Lust. Curiosity. Recognition?

Because something about him… it wasn’t just the beauty. It wasn’t just the way he looked at me like he knew me.

It was familiarity. That déjà vu throbbed behind my eyes and made my scalp tingle.

Was it him? The blond stranger from my dreams? The one whose touch still haunted my waking hours? Or was this just another face... another test?

I dragged my thoughts in every direction, hoping distraction would save me, but no logic could explain how or why this man, this otherworldly vision, had arrived at the monastery, just before dusk… in the mountains... alone.

What was he doing here?

And more importantly—

What was he about to do to me?

“I’m not an angel at all, ashpetal.”

The nickname made me shudder. Goosebumps traced down my spine, wrapping me in another wave of warmth followed by a chill. He knew that name. Only my father ever called me something that close — ashrose. Ashpetal was even more intimate, more personal. It couldn’t be a coincidence.

Had my father sent him? To check on me?

My heart started pounding with an uneasy rhythm. My mouth felt dry, my body tense, but he took my hand gently and led me toward the first row of rustic oak benches. I followed, blinking at him like I had lost my mind. He probably thought I was crazy.

The touch of his hand made me uncomfortable, not because it was unpleasant, but because it set my nerves on fire. It was a quiet, slow burn that I hadn’t felt in years, like something waking up inside me that I thought I’d buried.

We sat. He didn’t let go of my hand. Instead, he rested it on his thigh, the leather of his pants warm under my fingers. My heart raced in my chest. I hadn’t touched anyone like this in a decade.

“I would like to admit that…” he began.

But I didn’t hear the rest. His voice faded into the background as my pulse thundered in my ears.

My focus splintered. All I could do was stare, lips slightly parted, unable to look away.

He looked so much like the man from my dreams, the one I tried to forget, the one who left me breathless in sleep.

God, what was he saying? Something about soul unions?

I couldn’t concentrate. My body had already betrayed me.

I was soaked, not just my underwear, but the skirt of my dress and probably the bench beneath us.

Shame crept over me, heavy and humiliating.

I didn’t want to move. I couldn’t bear the thought of him seeing any trace of what was happening to me.

What the hell was he talking about?

“You didn’t hear me, did you, ashpetal?” he grinned, and I let out something between a half-moan and a startled breath. I wasn’t sure which it was. He leaned in closer, our lips now just inches apart, and I could feel the heat rise to my face.

“What are you doing?” I gasped, placing both hands on his chest. I could feel the tight, elastic tension of his muscles under my palms. My face lit up with even deeper color, and in a panic, I jumped off the bench — only to catch sight of the damning evidence I’d left behind.

A small trace of wetness shimmered against the wood in the last golden streaks of sunset.

His eyes flicked to the spot, then back to me.

With unsettling calm, he reached out, gliding his gloved fingers across the bench. The glove revealed the tips of his fingers, and he lifted the moisture, stretching it in the light. It sparkled briefly before he rubbed it between his fingers and just like that, he moved.

In a blur, he rose and pressed me against the altar. My back hit it hard enough to topple the unlit candles behind me. They clattered to the floor, scattering around us. I gasped, trying to steady myself with trembling hands as the full heat of his body pinned me in place.

The warmth that came off him was unbearable, making me feel like I could fry eggs on my cheeks. My face burned with shame and something darker that I didn’t want to name.

I opened my mouth, but no words came out.

“You’re behaving badly,” he murmured, eyes locked on mine. “Such a bad, bad girl...”

He grabbed my face gently but firmly, squeezing my cheeks so that my lips puckered slightly. I frowned in protest, unable to speak, unable to interrupt.

“The parishioner of this holy place poured his soul out to you,” he said with exaggerated gravity, emphasizing the word soul.

His smile widened, revealing slightly elongated fangs, more pronounced than any normal human’s.

And then, slowly, deliberately, he drew the tip of his tongue across his lips.

It was forked. Longer than it should’ve been.

And without thinking, I mirrored him, my own tongue gliding across my lips in silent reply.

“I was just listening, I...” I tried to justify myself for some reason, but he moved in, blocking me completely with his body.

I gave in under the weight of him, the press of him, the sheer force of his presence.

He wedged me between his muscular powerful thighs, and I could feel the heat pulsing from him, my eyes widened in shock.

His hand slid from my cheeks down to my neck, his fingers pressing lightly over the skin where my pulse beat too fast. He could feel it. Gods above, I could feel it. I hadn’t experienced this kind of thrill in years — if ever. Not like this.

I parted my lips and closed my eyes as his fingers grazed the chain at my throat, curling around the small cross. He tugged it gently, tightening it just enough to make my breath catch.

“Next time, little saint,” he murmured into my ear, his voice a sinful promise, “you will listen to me. Not drift off into your greedy little fantasies, imagining how I’d stretch your sweet pussy and fill you with my monster cock.”

His tongue flicked against my ear, followed by a nip to my earlobe. I gasped, squealed, my legs clenching instinctively, desperate to stop the throbbing ache in my core. He chuckled, a low dark laugh that made me shiver.

And then... nothing.

I opened my eyes.

He was gone.

No trace. No sign. The helmet, his scent of burnt trees, expensive cigarettes and fire mixed with something nutmeggy and so masculine, his warmth — everything had vanished.

As if he’d never been there at all. A hallucination?

A vision? God, if that was just another fantasy bleeding into my reality, then I was in deep trouble.

My mind was clearly fraying at the edges, unable to tell dreams from waking life.

Ten years without sex had apparently made me delusional. Worse still, I was still technically a virgin. Dating a girl in my early twenties meant my experience had been... limited. Fingertips only went so far.

Now, all of it, his voice, his hands, the words he whispered, lit my whole body on fire. The lines of my bisexuality, dormant for too long, roared back to life with a vengeance.

Either I was finally waking up... or completely losing my mind.

And the worst part?

I feared he’d show up again.

But I feared even more that he wouldn’t.