A ball of heat burns in my chest. It’s wrong, and I know it’s stupid, because these men don’t see me as a person. They see me as an object, as something that’s important only because they own it. Much like Tristian’s Porsche, I’m a possession he means to have impeccably kept, carefully maintained. It’s dehumanizing. But the Lords are also the only people who have ever fought for me. And Tristian is the first who’s allowed me to fight for myself. Taking a deep breath, I say, “Let’s do this.”
