It was a war old Tom would have never been able to fight. His need for reassurance and peacemaking would have made the ruthlessness of conflict impossible. He would have caved, for sure. But what he found now, in his first weeks as a lone wolf (and he would go entire days speaking no words out loud other than “Call,” “All in,” and “The number forty-two with the hot sauce, please”), was that life without the approval of a guiding figure was not the emotional wasteland he had always feared it would be. That he really could be content with being his own man—how had Patrick put it?—going his own way. Wasn’t that what true alphas did? And as for reassurance, does it come in sweeter, more concentrated form than the sight of bills growing in his desk drawer to little currency turrets, slowly but surely, indicating without a doubt that one is doing things right?

Things were going well, great even, and the troubles at the apartment were a small price to pay for his good fortune. Besides, he would probably move out soon, at this rate.