Taken By My Fiancé's Uncle - Chapter 9: Chapter 9

Eugene's hands settled on her shoulders, his touch deliberately steady. "Breathe!"
Under his grip, Lorraine's tension ebbed. Her gaze darted to the stove, then away, her expression tightening. "The pressure cooker... it burned."
"Lucky it didn't take the kitchen with it," he said lightly. The amusement in his voice barely masked his disbelief at her sleeping through the disaster.
Lorraine bristled at the jab. She stiffened, chin lifting. "Do it yourself next time. I was dead on my feet last night—surprised I didn't collapse right there."
"Last night?" The words snagged in his throat, raw and unguarded.
His eyes held hers, piercing and fathomless, the intensity around them sharpening as if the very air might ignite.
Lorraine averted her eyes and shrugged his hand off her shoulder. "Nothing. This is what I made. Take it or leave it. If you don't like it, go find someone else to cook for you."
'Honestly, with so many staff in the villa, why bother keeping me around just to humiliate me?' she thought, exasperated.
"What can you make, then?" he asked, brushing right past her words.
The question caught her off guard, but she answered anyway. "Canned spaghetti," she said flatly.
After making it painfully clear she was hopeless in the kitchen, she thought for certain he'd send her away by now.
To her surprise, Eugene turned, rummaged through a corner of the kitchen, and flung two cans of instant spaghetti at her. "Get these ready and bring them to the dining room."
Lorraine stared, realizing with bitter clarity—for every step she took to resist, he countered with ten.
She turned sharply, yanking the faucet on hard enough to rattle the pipes. Her back stayed turned, her silence deliberate.
Eugene stood behind her, his eyes tracing the lines of her body. She was barefoot, the oversized bathrobe pooling at her ankles but failing to conceal her small, beautiful feet.
His presence behind her sent a ripple of tension through her body—her toes curled against the floorboards, gripping like tiny, nervous paws.
Eugene's gaze darkened, his throat working in a slow, hungry swallow.
It took Lorraine a full thirty minutes to heat up and bring out two plates of spaghetti.
Eugene sat at the dining table, fingers drumming absently against the wood. His other hand rested atop two neatly stacked documents. The overhead light washed over him, accentuating his sharp, handsome features.
Without looking at him, Lorraine slid his portion across the table before taking a seat as far away as possible. Whether he ate or not didn't concern her. She dug into her own meal without a word.
The spaghetti was overcooked, but Lorraine didn't care. She twirled a forkful and took a bite, cheeks bulging as she chewed.
Eugene stared at his own spaghetti, nose wrinkling. He managed two polite bites before pushing it away.
Seeing Eugene had stopped eating, Lorraine attacked her spaghetti with renewed vigor. She noisily sucked up the last strands, then dropped the empty plate onto the table with a clatter.
With the last bite gone, Lorraine wiped her mouth and got straight to the point. "Alright, cut the crap. What's your real game here?"
Eugene's fingers, resting on the tabletop, stilled at her words. He met her gaze and countered, "Are you asking why I slept with you?"
Lorraine choked on his bluntness. "Just give it to me straight," she wheezed. "Where's Stephen? Or better yet—where are you keeping him? What do you want to let him go?"