It was strange having people care about Elyse Taylor. The way the followers of my art and paint cared about me was completely different from the way the ravenous press did. Sure, there were still some people who tried to cross lines, but a lot of them were simply art enthusiasts or people who enjoyed the videos and found them soothing.

While I was gone, I genuinely scared some of them with my sudden disappearance, and while I was vague in my explanation, I knew it would be a celebration if I announced Elyse Taylor had found a pack.

I glanced up at the clock. The mixing of this batch needed to wait. It was getting late and I needed to pack. In my haze of worry this morning, I hadn’t thought to bring my suitcase with me from the pack’s house. That was okay. I would be going back and forth at least a few more times.

Wes’s offer to move my studio to the pack’s house lurked in my mind. It was a nice idea, but it would be a lot of work, and I still wasn’t sure. It would make things easier, for sure. But I didn’t even know where the studio things would go at the house, and if I was trying this new don’t care about the paparazzi thing, then did it matter?

I would talk to them about it. I was sure their reaction would be to say yes and figure out a way to get my studio into the house immediately. But I was also sure they would listen to my concerns and think about it as a whole once I pointed out the issues, and it was nice to know they would.

One more reason I felt like my lungs had so much more room today.

I grabbed one of my empty running bags and filled it with clothes. A mixture of everything I might need. Plus a few of the wild things from the unworn section of my closet. Minus underwear. I was pretty sure I had enough lingerie and underwear at their house to last me a month.

Most of the paps had gotten bored after I spent hours in my house with no sign of leaving. One photographer was still hanging on, but he got the tamest picture imaginable–me on the way out of my house in leggings and a t-shirt with what looked like a gym bag over my shoulder.

We pulled up to the house, and there were people clustered around the door. Not press, but a couple of men in maintenance uniforms, and Addison.

“What time would you like us here tomorrow, Miss Williams?”

I blinked. Right. They were my security detail for the foreseeable future. “I’m not sure. I might not go anywhere. But I can text you?”