Never Tell a Soul, Damon Priest

3. the bizarre secrets of Geneva Withers

Geneva knew of Damon Priest, of course; had seen him around when they were younger, but he was just like every other resident of Abberton in her eyes. She did not even notice that he left to learn more about the family business he and his brothers inherited after their parents' deaths.

And like any other day, she could not care less who he was either. Yes, he may be a Stratford, but she was not among the crowd that worshiped them. Most especially when he was proving to her now why she should not.

He took her to the chapel, a small white building just to the side of the church. She meant to tell him it was improper for a man and a lady to lock themselves inside a room, but his very presence silenced her. For a split second, it reminded her of her aunts. She brushed the thought just as fast because her aunts were nothing like this man. They would never confront her like this in a public place, especially a chapel.

When the door locked, Geneva took a few steps back, panic rising to her throat. She could not look him in the eyes because her own were searching for another way out.

"What did you say to them?" he asked. That tone again. He did not sound angry at all, but his eyes were strong enough to catch her gaze when she stole a look.

"N-Nothing," she said, shaking her head. Clearing her throat, Geneva lifted her chin and arched her brow, hoping she looked like her Aunt Prudence. "Why?"

His gaze narrowed and held hers for one breathless moment. Then he scoffed and shook his head. "They were crying."

"And I told you—I did not mean to make them cry."

"Yet you did." He leaned against her only escape and crossed his arms. "Why?"

Geneva swallowed, her panic subsiding, slowly being replaced by things she feared—dangerous emotions that boiled her blood and shook her nerves. This man was judging her for hurting his cousins, and it was altogether unfair.

"You seem to have lost your voice, Miss Geneva," he said, head hanging to the side ever so slightly. "As I recall, you always have the best words to say to Roxie and Freda."

Her nostrils flared, her jaw tightened. But she kept her silence. Inside, she was battling a storm. She had to get away, to escape somewhere quiet with no handsome Stratford looking down at her as if she was an odd display behind a window shop.

She needed to be alone.

The more she thought about it, the heavier her chest became. It expanded, demanding more air.

"Miss Geneva, if you would please tell me—"

"Nothing happened. I scolded them for something they should have not done."

His brows cocked high. "I do not think they would shed tears over your sermons. You've been giving them to them for years and it never bothered them. Until today, that is."

"Then perhaps they should to be bothered," she said through her teeth.

He blinked at her. "Perhaps. If you will tell me what they did, then I assure to deliver the appropriate consequences."

His words caused her to scoff in disbelief. "You're telling me you punish them?"

"Of course. However, you don't. You cannot. Now, if you can tell me what they did and what you did to them."

"Why would I bother telling you? So you can scold them as you say? Punish them?"

His frown deepened. "You don't believe me."

"Why would I when I fall victim to the same games they play?" she asked, voice rising with each word. "And it's not as though you're unaware of said games. If you truly punish them for the trouble they bring to others, then my Sundays would have not been so horrible each time."