ATLAS' POV.
The crowd was still buzzing when I grabbed him by the arm.
I didn’t care about the stares or the whispers that followed us — not now. My grip tightened as I led him past the mourners, past the rows of fresh graves, until the noise faded into the wind.
We stopped behind an old tombstone, away from everyone else.
I turned to face him.
“Start talking,” I said, my voice a low growl. “Who the hell are you really? And what kind of game are you playing?”
He didn’t flinch. His dark eyes met mine without fear. He looked too calm, too composed for someone who’d just dropped a bomb in front of an entire pack.
“I told you,” he said simply. “My name’s Damon. I’m your big brother.”
I clenched my jaw. “That’s not an answer. You don’t show up at my father’s funeral, throw around words
