WILLOW'S POV.
The question hit harder than a blow.
I blinked at him, my fists clenching at my sides. “What do you mean?” I asked calmly, even though I already knew. He was angry—no, beyond angry. His tone wasn’t loud, but it carried a weight that pressed on my chest.
Atlas took a slow step forward, his jaw tight. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”
My mouth opened, but no sound came out. I wanted to speak—to explain—but the words tangled in my throat. He kept his eyes on me, sharp and burning, like he was looking for something—guilt, regret, or maybe proof that I didn’t care.
Finally, I forced myself to say it. “He attacked me.”
Atlas didn’t flinch. “And you killed him.”
The words sliced through the air, cutting deeper than any blade could. I swallowed hard, my fists tight
