Tiberius‘s pov.

“Pour it,” I grunted, dropping into the chair opposite Dorian’s desk like it owed me money.

He didn’t argue. The bottle of amber was already open—of course it was—and he splashed a generous shot into two thick-bottomed glasses. We clinked once, like men who had run out of things to toast, and I threw mine back hard enough to feel it burn.

“Again,” I said.

“Pace yourself,” he muttered, but he poured anyway. “We both need our ...