The silence in the room was no longer empty. It was a weapon, sharpened by my question and now held between us, its edge pressed against Charles's throat. He didn't flinch. He didn't retreat. Instead, a slow, dangerous smile touched his lips, a predator's acknowledgment of a worthy opponent. It was a genuine, unguarded expression I had ever seen from him, and it was more terrifying than any show of anger.
"Deceive myself?" he repeated, his voice a low, silken murmur that vibrated with a dark amusement. "That's a fascinating choice of words, Eric. It implies there's something to believe in. A truth. An emotion." He took a step closer, the space between us shrinking until I could feel the controlled heat radiating from him, the scent of scotch and something sharper, more primal, filling my senses. "I deal in probabilities. In leverage. In facts that can be verified and controlled. Belief is for children and fools."
