Florian inhaled sharply, forcing his hands to remain steady as he gestured toward the worn-out chair. "Sit down." His voice was firm—an order, not a request.
Charles arched a brow, amusement flickering in his dark eyes, but he didn't hesitate. With an easy, unhurried grace, he sank into the chair, sprawling lazily like a king on his throne. One arm draped over the armrest while the other reached for his whiskey.
He swirled the amber liquid in slow circles, letting the light catch on the glass before taking a long, deliberate sip. His gaze never wavered, watching Florian over the rim, the weight of his attention heavy and unshaken.
The dim lighting deepened the shadows across his sharp, angular features, carving them into something more menacing, more cruel. The smirk curling at his lips was smug, knowing, a silent taunt that sent a slow, creeping chill up Florian's spine.
