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Summary
“You’re a half-blood.”
Lewis took exactly three seconds to blink at Nico, one to shoot a look at their ringleader, and a fifth to swing.
His fist collided with Nico's nose with a satisfyingly sickening crunch. The fucker had called him a half-blood. Half, like they were back in the olden days or something. So what if his dad was Black and his mom was White? Didn't change shit. He was still Lewis.
Nico staggered back, hissing through his teeth, one hand clamped over his face. Blood snaked down his wrist, coiled off his chin, and splattered against the asphalt—pat, pat, pat. Lewis watched it go, itching for a second round. Fucking prick. Served him right.
"Say that again," Lewis growled. "Say it again, you fucking—"
Mark stepped in between them before Nico could recover, palms up in a weary mate, come on gesture.
"What Nico meant to say," he grumbled, "was that you're a demigod."