Chapter 64
**Tiberius‘s pov.**
Victor’s door slammed open before I even touched it. The man clearly heard my steps from a mile away.
“You’ve got some fucking nerve,” he growled from the shadows. “You better have a damn good explanation.”
I stepped inside, shutting the door behind me. The room was dark, lit only by the fireplace’s dying glow. Victor stood with arms crossed, his face like stone.
“I don’t need permission, Victor,” I said calmly. “But I do need you to understand.”
“Understand?” he barked. “Understand what, exactly? That you’re running off *again*—this time dragging the girl who nearly mauled one of our own? Or that our so-called leader is abandoning the only safe hold we have left, while Alaric, rogues breathes down our goddamn necks?”
I didn’t flinch. “I’m doing what needs to be done.”
Victor stepped forward. “You’re doing what your *dick* tells you to do. Let’s not dress it up in noble excuses. You think with your heart now, Tiberius, not your head.”
“Watch your mouth,” I warned, low and sharp.
“Or what?” he challenged. “You’ll go cry to your mutt girl? The one who can’t even keep her shit together long enough not to tear up our people?”
That was it. I stepped in, chest to chest with him. “This war—*everything*—is about her. You think it’s coincidence? Alaric isn’t chasing power for power’s sake. He needs her. Her *blood*, Victor. And if he gets it, he gets control over the very bond that keeps our kind sane. You want to talk leadership? Fine. But know this—I’m thinking ten steps ahead while you’re stuck guarding the front door.”
Victor’s jaw ticked. “And you’re so sure this plan of yours will fix it all?”
“No,” I admitted. “But it’s our best shot. Dorian stabilizing his kingdom gives us a shot at peace. Freya regaining control of herself gives us a weapon—or stops her from becoming one against us. I need her stable. And she can’t do that here.”
Victor turned away, raking his hands through his hair. “I can’t believe this. You’re asking me to trust Dorian? The fucking Alpha who’s one bad day away from marching on Ravenhold?”
“I’m not asking you to trust him. I’m asking you to *trust me*.”
Silence stretched between us.
“I’ve bled for this hold,” Victor finally said. “Watched too many of our own fall. I don’t like this. But…” He sighed, tired. “You’re not an idiot. You never were.”
I nodded. “Glad we agree on that.”
Victor turned back to face me, arms crossed again. “So what’s the plan, really?”
“You’re coming with us.”
He blinked. “What?”
“The shaman can set up a communication link between the safe house and Ravenhold. Magical relay. That way, you stay informed. No one panics.”
His brows shot up. “So now we’re in the business of witchcraft?”
I smirked. “What’s next, right?”
Victor shook his head, muttering. “Fucking unbelievable…”
But he didn’t protest.
The next few hours passed in a blur. I briefed the shaman, Freya gathered what she needed, and we saddled the horses.
The group was quiet—too quiet—as we rode under the darkened sky. Freya rode near me, her expression clouded, her shoulders tight. Victor trailed behind, always scanning the treeline like a sentinel. The shaman, ever composed, kept a slow, even pace. We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to. The tension clung to all of us like fog.
The safe house came into view after nearly five hours. Nestled between crooked trees and blanketed in shadow, it glowed faintly with lanternlight. Someone was already there.
Dorian.
He sat on the porch, legs spread, arms resting on his knees like he’d been waiting for a fight. When he saw us, he stood.
His eyes scanned the group. Not a single smile. Not even a nod. But when his gaze landed on Freya, his entire body changed—shoulders squaring, jaw tightening. His eyes narrowed. Possessive. Angry. Worried.
Freya shifted in her saddle uncomfortably, and I felt the flicker of uncertainty in her aura. She didn’t speak. Just stared back.
I moved my horse in closer, shielding her slightly without making it obvious. Dorian’s eyes snapped to me. The air between us sparked, old tension reigniting.
Victor muttered under his breath. “Great. Just what we need. Testosterone standoff part two.”
I ignored him.
“Dorian,” I said evenly.
“Tiberius.” His voice was a blade.
A long silence stretched. Then, slowly, Dorian nodded.
“Well,” he muttered. “Let’s get this over with.”
We dismounted. Freya’s hand lingered on her saddle horn for a moment longer than needed. She looked at the house, then at us. Then, quietly, she walked toward the porch.
Dorian didn’t move.
Freya passed him slowly, her eyes downcast.
And just like that, we were under one roof.
The storm was still brewing.
But now… it was all inside.