Sasha scowls. “Not as thorough as he would’ve liked. I won’t make that same mistake when the tables are turned.”
I shake my head in disgust as I dip another cotton ball into the hydrogen peroxide. “Good to see you’ve learned your lesson about these stupid power squabbles.” I feel like Mama, slamming kitchen cabinets and muttering about men and their wars. It used to seem like a grand thing she was rebelling against. Now that I’m in her shoes, though, I just feel disgusted. “Wars” aren’t grand or awe-inspiring; they’re just bleeding gut wounds festering in abandoned French farms. Nothing grand or awe-inspiring about that.
“Those ‘squabbles’ would’ve had you chopped up into half a dozen different pieces if I didn’t intervene,” he growls.
“Again with the hero act. Do you ever give it a res
