12. Perseus #2
He glanced at Theo, who gave him a small nod. Then he turned to his parents—his dad’s brown eyes steady, his mom’s expression unreadable but kind. The words gathered in his chest, ready to change everything.
Perseus sat down across from them, elbows resting on his knees, trying to steady his breath. The words came slowly at first, raw and tangled in his chest.
“In Switzerland,” he began, “I was attacked. I didn’t see who it was…not clearly. But it felt organized. Like they had a goal.” He glanced up at them. “They wanted me to say something. Admit something.”
His father frowned. “What?”
“That I was the son of Zeus.”
The silence stretched for a beat too long. Then his mother’s voice cut through it, tight and laced with disbelief. “Zeus?”
Perseus nodded. “Yeah.”
“How is that even possible?” his father asked, jaw tightening. “Zeus—he’s a god.”
Perseus met his eyes and took a deep breath. “When I was eighteen…he came to me. Told me the truth. Said I was his son. That he’d been watching from a distance, waiting until I was old enough to handle it. Said that…she never knew who he really was.”
“Amanda,” Jean whispered, hazel eyes wide. “Are you saying she…she didn’t even know?”
Perseus shook his head. “No. Zeus said she didn’t. That he kept it from her. I didn’t know how to tell you. Any of you.”
“You’ve been keeping this since you were eighteen?” his father asked. “All this time?”
“Yes,” Perseus said, guilt gnawing at him. “I didn’t know what to do with it. I didn’t want it to change anything. I was still me . Still your son.”
He looked up at them. “I didn’t want it to matter.”
His mother stood then, arms crossed tightly as if holding herself together.
Her face was unreadable, but her voice was careful.
“But it does matter. Because you were hurting. Because someone came after you, and we didn’t even know what kind of enemies you might have.
” Her voice broke slightly. “Because you didn’t tell us. ”
Perseus opened his mouth, but no words came.
Theo, quiet until now, stepped forward. “We know you were trying to protect us. But now we need to protect you , too.”
“I know,” Perseus nodded slowly. “That’s why I’m telling you. I can’t keep it hidden anymore.”
He rubbed his palms over his jeans, grounding himself with the rough denim before looking up again. “But…there’s more.”
His mother’s brow furrowed. “More?”
“Yes,” he said, the words thick in his throat. “The gorgon I was working with in Switzerland…Medusa.”
Even saying her name felt like pressing on a bruise that hadn’t faded.
“She was with them. The people who attacked me. Or at least, she was working with them.” He swallowed. “She—she handed me over.”
“Fucking hell,” Leo muttered, sitting back hard in his chair.
Perseus blinked. His father never cursed. Not even when he’d broken his leg during that hunt five winters ago. The rare profanity twisted something inside him.
“Yeah,” Perseus said, voice barely above a whisper. “She turned me in. And they thanked her for her work. Called her their inside agent.”
“But you worked with her, so you trusted her?” asked his mother.
“I did,” Perseus said bitterly. “I—” he cut himself off. No. They didn’t need the details of how much he’d trusted her. Of how deeply she’d gotten into his heart.
He took a breath. “The first time we met, she outed me. She knew I was divine—could sense it. That’s her gift. She can feel the presence of magical and divine beings.”
His mother slowly lowered herself back into the chair beside his father, her lips pressed into a thin line.
“She used it on me. Said she knew I wasn’t just a shifter. And I panicked, but…somehow we ended up working together anyway.” He gave a small, humorless laugh.
His father’s eyes were sharp now, Alpha instincts awake, flickering just beneath the surface. “And she betrayed you.”
Perseus nodded, his jaw tightening. “Yeah.”
The room sat heavy with silence.
“I’m sorry,” his mother finally said. “Not just for what she did, but that you had to go through it alone.”
Perseus looked down at his hands. “I’m not alone anymore,” he said. “That’s why I told you. Because I need my pack. I need you .”
“You’ve always had us,” said his father. “God or no god, secrets or no secrets—you’re still our son.”
Perseus’s throat tightened, and he nodded.
“Good,” Theo muttered from behind him. “Because now we can finally start fixing this shit.”
Perseus felt it in his chest—the warmth, the steady presence of their love surrounding him. No judgement. Just the grounding sense of home. Of pack . Their acceptance washed over him like the tide, slow and inevitable, and his wolf stirred inside him, stretching, lifting its head, sensing safety.
And so, he took the plunge.
“There’s…one more thing,” he said, voice quiet but steady.
His family looked at him, alert again. His mother reached for his father’s hand, fingers interlacing tightly.
“We worked together,” Perseus said, forcing the words out through the weight in his chest. “And somehow, despite everything, we fell in love.”
His mother’s eyes widened, and Theo let out a breath.
Perseus pressed a hand over his heart, his palm flat. “I’ve been feeling these chest pains—dull at first, but constant. Achey. Not physical exactly. Emotional. And my wolf’s been restless. Pacing. Growling sometimes. He wants her. Still does.”
His mother gasped softly. “Oh, Perseus…”
His father didn’t say anything at first, just studied him with those calm, dark eyes. Then he said, low and measured, “Your wolf approves of her.”
Perseus nodded. “Yes. Even after what she did. He still…he still wants her. Misses her. And I feel it every damn day.”
Theo ran a hand through his damp hair, his brows pulling together as his gaze dropped to the floor.
“I don’t know,” Perseus admitted. “It feels like…like some part of me already made the choice before I had a say.”
“Oh, Perseus,” his mother said again, rising from her chair and walking over to him. She cupped his face with gentle hands. “You’re not broken. You’re grieving. Loving someone, trusting them, and being hurt—it doesn’t make the love any less real.”
His father stood as well, joining them. “And if your wolf still wants her…we’ll figure it out.”
Perseus felt a swell of emotion rise in his throat. “Even if she’s dangerous?”
“Love is always dangerous,” the Alpha said. “But so is not knowing. So is wondering what if. ”
Perseus looked between them—his mother with her teary eyes and soft strength, his father with the steady, Alpha calm, and his brother hovering near, arms crossed but expression torn with concern—and he realized he didn’t have to carry it alone anymore.
There was a knock on the library door, sharp and precise.
Everyone turned just as it cracked open, and Psyche stepped inside. She scanned the room with her usual clinical calm, her eyes flicking from their mother to their father, then to Theo, and finally landing on Perseus. Her gaze lingered.
“Yes,” Perseus said, already knowing what she was going to ask. “I told them.”
Psyche’s face softened with something close to pride, and she stepped forward. “Good.” Then she added with a small smile, “I need to talk to you.”
Perseus glanced at his parents, who nodded quietly, before he followed his sister out of the room.
Psyche moved fast for someone so small—barely to his shoulder—but her presence was commanding, even in silence.
Her thoughts were always two steps ahead, and he’d learned not to underestimate his younger sister.
“I’m glad you told them,” she said when they reached the hallway. Then, to his surprise, she hugged him.
He returned it, warm and brief. “Me too.”
She said nothing more, just led him down a quieter wing of the house. He recognized the corridor—this part had guest rooms and old storage spaces they rarely used. His brow furrowed. “Psyche, where are we?—”
They stepped into a room, and his breath caught.
Snakelets. At least a dozen of them. Tiny, ribbon-thin things curling along the shoulder of a woman whose back was to them. His heart dropped into his stomach like a stone.
Medusa?
But then the woman turned around.
It wasn’t her.
“This is Calliope,” Eros said and stepped closer. “Medusa’s cousin.”
Calliope stood tall, her athletic frame clad in a sleek black zip-up and fitted cargo pants. The resemblance was there—in the curve of her cheekbones, the set of her shoulders—but her energy was grounded in a different kind of strength.
“Hi, Perseus. Medusa doesn’t know I’m here.”
Perseus felt his pulse throb. Not with recognition, but with the reminder of all he had lost. And possibly…a path to understanding it.