Page 51 of Where the Dark Knelt (Worshipped by Darkness #1)

Chapter Twenty Nine

Eveline

This morning, I woke up with anxiety clawing at my chest, a panic attack seizing me before I could even take my first breath of the day.

I clutched my heart, trying to ground myself, and turned my gaze to the window.

The sun was just beginning to rise, its gentle light creeping over the horizon and spilling into the quiet room.

“Dawn is coming soon… we need to get ready for prayer…” I mumbled to myself as I forced my trembling body out of bed.

Today was my thirty-first birthday.

In general, I’d always been haunted by uneasy thoughts for weeks leading up to my birthday.

Yet every year, as the day arrived, I would forget the dread for a moment, though I never celebrated it willingly.

I didn’t want to celebrate at all. Especially not knowing still if my father was alive or not…

And mainly when I considered myself a sinner while sleeping with a demon…

Still, the sisters always did something small for me, they would bake a simple cake or gather around the table in the evening, sharing warm words and prayers. It was never extravagant, but their kindness always filled the silent void I carried inside.

Yet every year, thinking about my birthday left a bitter taste in my mouth.

It always felt like… like devaluing myself somehow.

Like I was forced to measure my worth by all these unfulfilled expectations and childish dreams that never came true.

Even though I’d tried for years to banish those comparisons from my mind, they were always there, returning each year without fail.

Each passing year reminded me of everything I didn’t become.

Everything that didn’t happen. All those silent disappointments piled up into a suffocating weight that settled over my heart, pressing down until I could hardly breathe.

When I was a little girl, I imagined that by thirty, my life would be so different.

Back then, around age eleven or twelve, I thought thirty was so grown-up, so far away, a magical age where everything fell into place.

But as I approached thirty, and then crossed its threshold, I realized life was…

nothing like I had dreamed. The horror of my birthday began when I was sixteen, I think.

That was when reality first slapped me awake – when my childish hopes collided with the harshness of life.

At sixteen, I wanted to go to university to study music and singing.

It was my only dream back then, to stand on stage and let my voice flow out into the world.

But my parents just laughed at me, telling me that I needed to be strong and independent if I didn’t want to end up married off to some man I hated.

And I didn’t want to get married, not to a man at least. Still, they crushed my dreams with their endless criticisms, telling me to choose a “normal” profession, something “practical.” In the end, I went to university only because they attacked me relentlessly, not because I wanted to.

I gave up on my dreams before I even turned seventeen.

By seventeen, I thought I would have a good job or maybe even start a small business.

At eighteen, in my daydreams, I saw myself happily married – to a girl.

For some reason, back then, the idea of being with a woman felt safer, warmer, less frightening than being with a man.

I thought that by nineteen, I would have given birth to my first child – again, not really my own desire, but my parents’ fantasy for my life.

By twenty, I was supposed to own a house, have several cars, live this glamorous life they wanted for me.

But it was all nonsense. Life didn’t turn out that way.

And as the years rolled by, approaching thirty terrified me.

I felt like I had achieved nothing of value, nothing to prove I existed at all, except for a long list of mental disorders and a twitching eye that acted up whenever my stress levels peaked.

Every birthday became another reminder of my failures.

It was frightening, infuriating, and deeply disappointing.

But today was my thirty-first birthday. And would probably pass quietly, in the company of my sisters and the rhythm of morning prayers echoing through the monastery halls.

As I sat there, feeling the gentle warmth of their presence around me, I realized something: maybe it wasn’t so bad that life didn’t turn out the way I imagined as a child.

Maybe, just maybe, it was for the best.

I had always thought that by thirty-one, I would be a successful businesswoman, with children and a family and a wife. But life doesn’t follow our childish blueprints. It throws us down paths we never planned, and sometimes, those detours lead us to the only place we were ever meant to go.

Now, I had a different plan. A better plan. To live with God, to serve Him, to walk this quiet path alongside my sisters. I had found a different family, a different purpose, and though it was nothing like what I dreamed as a girl, it was something beautiful in its own way.

For some reason, today felt special. I couldn’t explain why, but deep inside, I felt an urge to bring a little joy to the sisters, to mark this day with something sweet and warm.

So, I took some money from the common treasury and called a taxi to the city.

My destination was clear in my mind: the most popular pastry shop in town – Boulangerie.

At least, that’s what the sign said next to Marie’s name.

I wanted to bring back something beautiful and delicious to share with everyone. Even if my own heart felt fragile this morning, I wanted to make this day feel a little sweeter – for them, and maybe, just maybe, for myself too.

As I stepped inside the bakery, I gasped softly, struck by the sheer beauty of the place. From the outside, it looked grand and pretentious, with antique stonework and wrought iron embellishments that reminded me of old European streets. But inside… inside it was something else entirely.

The ceilings soared impossibly high, frescoed like the domes of Gothic cathedrals, painted in soft ivory and gold filigree, with warm lights shimmering from ornate chandeliers.

Huge marble columns rose toward the heavens, supporting the floors above with silent majesty.

It almost felt like walking into an opera house, it was elegant, timeless, and echoing with an invisible symphony.

I stood there for a moment, slightly overwhelmed, letting my eyes drink it all in.

A small smile bloomed on my lips despite the morning’s heaviness.

For a fleeting moment, I remembered my old life, back when I was just another student wandering through bustling coffee shops after class.

Back then, we’d drink cup after cup of bitter espresso until our hearts raced wildly, laughing at half-funny jokes and empty gossip.

We weren’t close, those classmates and I, but their warmth still lingered in my memory like a gentle touch on a winter morning.

I never graduated from university. Life had dragged me down a different path entirely.

But somehow… somehow, it felt like all those years had passed in the blink of an eye.

As if I’d woken up from a long sleep and found myself here, in this beautiful bakery, searching for something sweet to bring home.

I walked to the counter, gazing at the endless display of pastries and desserts.

There was everything: fresh artisan breads stacked neatly in woven baskets, golden croissants glistening with butter, delicate cream buns, flaky fruit pies, and elegant desserts that looked like miniature works of art.

My mouth watered at the sight of them all, but what caught my attention were the mini cream pies with pear and cheese.

They were tiny, shaped like hearts, dainty and girlish in their presentation, and I knew instantly they were perfect for the sisters.

I approached the cashier, smiling softly at the young man behind the register. He looked like a student working here over the summer, his thick brown curls fell messily over his forehead, half-covering his glasses. There was an awkward gentleness about him that made my smile widen unconsciously.

“Can I get thirteen pear and cheese cream pies, please?” I asked, my voice quiet and polite.

But before he could respond, a voice slithered into my ear, rich and low, each syllable dripping with sinful amusement.

“Yes… I can give you that, at least three hundred and thirty-three creampies if you want, little saint…”

I froze. Heat rushed to my cheeks in an instant, my entire body flushing as his breath fanned against my ear. Desmond’s voice. That dark, velvet rasp that always seemed to melt straight into my bones, leaving trembling ruin in its wake.

“For my sisters…” I whispered quickly to the cashier, trying to finish my order, my lips tightening into a thin, embarrassed line.

Did he hear that? Did he hear him?

Because the boy behind the counter seemed to fall into a stupor, his eyes flicking to my flushed face before darting away in a panic.

Without saying another word, he turned abruptly and disappeared behind the counter to gather my order, his ears burning red with embarrassment or awkwardness I wasn’t sure which.

“Such a spoilsport…” Desmond’s voice tsked softly behind me, the sound vibrating through my body with wicked heat.

I felt his hand slide down, slow and possessive, cupping my ass through the thick folds of my nun’s dress. My breath hitched as his hips pressed into me from behind, hard and insistent. I could feel his erection straining against my lower back, and my knees nearly gave out from the shock of it.

“Damn, love…” he purred, his voice husky with lust. “I wish you’d let me take you right here, in this little nun dress of yours… mmm…”