The sea god's next word was a demand staged as a question. "Who?"
Percy jolted. "My stepfather," he blurted out, unnerved by the unexpected power play and unable to rein in his tongue. "The first one, not the one at the Battle of Olympus. Paul's great." His fingers tangled into his hair, and he was babbling out excuses before he could even suck in air. "It was a long time ago; it's fine. I'm over it. Honest."
And then, "I'm sorry if I embarrassed you." Poseidon ogled him, taken aback.
"Pardon?"
"I didn't really think before I spoke. I don't regret what I said to Marie, of course not, but... but I should've considered the nasty position I must've put you in. The minor gods will be talking for weeks, and..." Percy found himself flustered and trembling. "Fuck, who am I kidding? They'll be talking for centuries." He would've continued on, if not
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"I could not view you in your home; I was afraid one of the other gods would look into my activities and discover you and your mother. I could only catch glimpses through spies or whenever you were near the sea." Immediately, Percy remembered the cyclops watching him play during recess at primary school. He recalled the pretty ladies giggling and smiling underneath the water's surface at Montauk when he was four-years old.
Percy felt gutted. "I thought you knew," he choked. The relief of admitting what had been on his mind for so long was staggering. Poseidon's eyes widened. "I just—I figured you..." He took a shuddering gulp for air and raked a hand through his wild hair with shaky fingers. Percy saw Poseidon zero in on small, circular scars running along his arms, the burns the size of a mark easily hidden by a bandaid. Eyes darted to the mottled mesh of raised flesh near his elbow from broken beer bottles. Usually people dismissed the old scars as another half-blood quarrel. But Poseidon knew better. It spurred the god into action.
The teen found himself tugged forward into a