Unworthy: Marked to die. Raised to survive. by Joanne Armstrong Page B

arms.
    “Just shut up and listen, will you? I’m trying to tell you that I think we should get married.”
    This isn’t how I’d imagined it either. I’m salt-stained, sweat-stained, dusty and dishevelled, and I’m sitting on the floor with my emotions in shreds around me. When I look at myself as though from the outside, I realise that it is at moments like this when Bastian is at his best. When I’m at my worst.
    “Why do you want to get married?” I ask.
    “Think about it, it makes so much sense. As my wife, you’ll be given certain privileges not afforded to you as a… a single girl. And people wouldn’t dare to say those kinds of things about my wife. Life will be better for you. And with your Grandad… well, if he doesn’t recover…”
    He’s right, of course. He hasn’t mentioned the mark of the Unworthy, but he doesn’t need to. For a girl like me, there are few ways out of the nightmare that is my life. Marriage to a Firstborn would improve it. This thought is not a new one, but it is the first time Bastian has spoken to me of marriage, and I find myself annoyed that it comes with such clinical analysis.
    A beautiful, generous and warm man has just asked me to marry him and I don’t feel a flutter of excitement or romance. I feel wary.
    “Not now, Bastian,” I manage. This will take some processing. I have enough to deal with right now without having to work out why I’m not jumping into his arms.
    “Just promise me you’ll think about it,” he says. “I don’t want you to be alone.”
    I turn to him and take his hands. I press my lips together and force myself to look into his warm brown eyes. I see written there that he is in turmoil too, but his timing is completely off. His willingness to be vulnerable right now makes me choose gentle words. “I promise,” I say, “but now is not the time.” I let him give my fingers a squeeze before pulling them away and wiping my palms on my thighs.
    A sudden sharp knock on the door startles both of us.
    “Open up!” comes an unfamiliar shout, laced with authority. We both stand, but Bastian motions me to stay back, and cracks the door cautiously.
    His demeanour changes as soon as it is open; he straightens up, immediately at attention.
    A Polis soldier in grey and black uniform stands in the shadowy passageway.

    Chapter Eight
    “I’m looking for Matthias Clark.”
    “Matthias… Clark? No, there’s no-one – “
    “Old man, fifty-six years old.”
    I realise who he’s here for. I lurch forward. “What do you want with him now, you coward? Here to finish what you started?” My anger, simmering below the surface under tight reign, bubbles up anew. I’m at the doorway, hands clenched into fists, the awkward conversation with Bastian forgotten.
    Bastian pushes me away, which is probably good, because I’m about to hit the idiot who’s just showed up. Who looks amused rather than threatened by me.
    Bastian pulls me behind him. “It’s a different soldier, Dia,” he shushes me. To the Polis soldier he says, “I don’t know Matthias Clark, Sir. There was an altercation in the square this afternoon. Matthias Grey was involved. He’s injured, and in the back room.”
    The soldier considers this. “I’ll need to see him,” he tells us. Bastian motions towards the doorway. I’m opening my mouth for a retort when he covers it and holds me back as the soldier walks past us and enters Grandad’s room. Bastian forces me down onto the bench and as soon as my hands are free I am hitting him. A flurry of raindrops against steel. I’m so angry at him I could scream.
    “Arcadia!” Bastian is calling my name, quietly but firmly. “Stop fighting me! Please!” He’s willing me to listen. He’s pinning me to the bench. “Just stop! You can’t fight this guy, you can’t win against him. You can’t help your Grandad by resisting him. Please, Dia!”
    I start to calm down. I know he’s right, it’s just that I’m so mad right now. As