“Don’t you understand?” Luke bitterly sneered under his breath, sword peeking out of arms reach to meet the skin of your neck. If he wanted you to understand, there was probably a lot less intimidating ways to do such.

There was a certain glint in his eyes, one he’d only get when he was up to no good, when he was planning something under all those feigned reassurances of ‘im fine’ ‘it’s nothing’. As if he was expecting you to run off with him like he hasn’t accompanied the worst crimes against Camp Half Blood.

You were childhood best friends, and now the tension seeping between you could be cut with his very own weapon. He’d spent countless years subtly hammering the possibility that the gods could be neglectful in your head, but you never seemed to take him so seriously on it. So he’ll make you.

Every bone in his body ached and rung with yearning, the sickly feeling of a broken heart pouring into his veins. He was practically convincing himself it was the effect of Kronos’s consciousness merging with his every thought — but his heart told him he’d be locked with pain if you weren’t on his side. Kronos had utterly replaced his being.

“I thought you agreed with me, that half-bloods deserved a heir to power, that they shouldn’t be scum of the earth.” He bitterly muttered out, the scar that lay over his eye creasing ever so slightly as his features hardened in irritation.