Mature content 18+ only
BOOK 1 IN The Dominant series
"You are crossing a very dangerous territory, Natalia. I suggest you better stop, before I take things in my hand." He growled in a low voice, so that, only I can hear him.
"Oh really? And what i...
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VOTE TARGET 100 VOTES ⭐ _________________________
Natalia's POV
The moment I stepped into my mom's house, the familiar scent of vanilla and lavender wrapped around me like a comforting hug. The warmth of home, the feeling of safety-it was something I had been desperately craving after the chaos of the past week.
"Lia!" Mom's voice rang from the kitchen, filled with excitement.
A genuine smile broke across my lips as I kicked off my shoes and made my way toward her. She was already in her apron, a wooden spoon in one hand, and a knowing look in her soft brown eyes. "You're late."
I laughed, setting my purse aside. "Traffic was a nightmare."
She scoffed playfully, setting the spoon down before pulling me into a warm embrace. The scent of cinnamon and fresh dough clung to her, and for a moment, I allowed myself to melt into the comfort only a mother could provide.
"I missed you," she murmured, smoothing my hair down.
"I missed you too."
She pulled back, giving me an assessing look. "You look tired."
I waved her off with a grin, even though she was right. Thoughts of Maddison still stressed me out. "I'm fine, just hungry. What are we making tonight?"
Her eyes lit up. "I was thinking of your favorite-homemade ravioli with the creamy garlic sauce. And for dessert, chocolate lava cakes."
I gasped dramatically. "Are you trying to bribe me into visiting more often?"
She smirked, handing me an apron. "Is it working?"
I tied the strings behind my back, already rolling up my sleeves. "Absolutely."
The next hour passed in a blur of laughter, flour-dusted counters, and the comforting rhythm of chopping, stirring, and sautéing. I worked on the pasta dough, kneading it into smooth perfection, while Mom focused on making the sauce, humming softly to herself.
"Do you remember the first time we tried making ravioli?" she asked, glancing at me with amusement.
I groaned. "How could I forget? We ended up with a flour explosion, and half the filling landed on the floor."
Mom burst into laughter. "And you insisted we still eat it, calling it 'five-second rule' pasta."
I snorted, rolling out the dough. "I was a desperate child, okay?"
"You were a menace," she teased, nudging me with her elbow.
We worked in sync, just like we always had. It felt natural, effortless-something I had missed more than I realized. No tension, no overthinking. Just us, in our own little world, where nothing else mattered.
