Top-Tier Arranged Marriage, but the Dom-Husband Has Amnesia - Chapter 2

Evening.

The hospital was brightly lit.

In the circular lobby on the first floor, the Zerg attendants responsible for the security of His Excellency the Saint knelt on the ground.

Igris Orwell did not rush to punish them.

He walked through the lobby and went straight upstairs. In the corridor, a medical team composed of over a dozen physicians was discussing the diagnosis in hushed tones. Igris raised his eyes slightly, his gaze sweeping calmly over the lead Zerg.

A few strands of hair fell over his forehead, casting a shadow over his brow ridge, making it impossible for others to discern the expression of the Councilor.

In fact, no one dared to look.

The pressure emanating from the 3S-class Zerg was overwhelming. The attending physician broke into a cold sweat, forcing himself to maintain his professionalism as he reported, trembling: “His Excellency Noah’s body is in no serious danger. The violent collision of the flight vehicle resulted in a mild concussion and brain injury, which has caused a certain degree of memory loss.”

“Based on the various test results, His Excellency the Saint’s memory seems to have regressed by ten years, returning to the year he was eighteen.”

Igris asked directly, “Can it be cured?”

The doctor explained, “With current medical technology, we do not recommend using external interference to forcibly repair the memory. After all, the brain is connected to mental power and is one of the most important organs for you Excellencies. Any act performed on the brain could potentially cause unnecessary damage to the mental world.”

“Of course, this is a recommendation based on existing Federation technology. If you wish, you could investigate the Federation’s reserve technologies; there might be a better solution there.”

Troublesome.

Igris thought.

A memory regression of ten years meant that in his mate’s perception, the relationship between them would revert to the cold, distant state they held before they were married.

But that was only one aspect.

Worse than merely forgetting him or their existing social circle—the only Saint of the Holy Land, a pivotal power-holder in the Federation’s Upper House—had lost nearly a decade of political experience, life exposure, and the wisdom, temperament, and tactics he had cultivated because of it.

The best-case scenario was for Noah to recover his memory before the various factions reacted.

Once the recovery time dragged on…

Igris turned his head and looked out the window.

The setting sun was like blood, and the clouds churned, seeping with a rust-colored red.

He withdrew his gaze indifferently.

The Federation, he feared, was about to change.

…

Igris pushed the door open.

In the hospital room, the young Zerg was leaning against the headboard, cold, silent, and breathtakingly beautiful.

A few strands of his shoulder-length white hair were tied into a small bundle, dangling by his collarbone. As he raised his eyes to look over, the ends of his hair stood up and curled slightly, trembling gently in sync with his long, dense eyelashes.

He asked, “Who are you?”

Igris raised an eyebrow, his gaze sweeping over the Zerg on the bed without a hint of emotion.

Confirming that there were indeed no other physical injuries, he spoke in a gentle tone: “I am pleased to see you awake, my mate. Let me introduce myself. I am Igris Orwell, your legal spouse, your Zerg husband.”

There was no response.

The Zerg tilted his head, frowning slightly in confusion, as if trying to digest the statement. Light annoyance flickered in his golden eyes, accompanied by undisguised vigilance and resistance.

This was not strange.

Although he did not know the exact day his mate’s memory had stopped at, one thing was certain: no unmarried Zerg, especially a Zerg, could easily accept that they had woken up to find that while they had lost their memory, they had also gained a stranger as their spouse.

Igris did not attempt to approach.

He stood at the edge of the room, maintaining a safe social distance, thoughtfully giving the other party a moment to think for themselves.

The young Excellency remained silent for a while, then asked, “Are you… my husband?”

“Yes.”

The Zerg blinked his eyelashes lightly, as if trying to understand the situation. A few seconds later, he raised his eyes slightly, looking at the Zerg opposite him, and asked as if seeking permission: “Then, can you come over and hug me?”

He explained, “I am a little scared.”

His voice was light and soft.

It was like snow falling suddenly from a branch, carrying a lazy, clinging lilt at the end of his sentence.

…？

Igris raised an eyebrow, looking at the Zerg before him with an unreadable expression.

Just as Zergs needed a mate’s pheromones to soothe the agitation in their mental seas, likewise, when an Excellency was in a strange environment or a dangerous area and felt discouraged or uneasy, the place they most wanted to be was not some impenetrable fortress, but in their husband’s arms.

This was a physiological instinct.

But his mate, that cold, always-aloof Excellency who was more rational than anyone—when had he ever displayed a side driven by such instincts?

Igris was somewhat surprised, but he did not intend to fulfill the request.

In their three years of marriage, it was obviously impossible that they had not done anything, but that was limited to standard marital obligations. There had been marks, physical unions, and mental merging, but sweet, ordinary intimacies like hugging and kissing had never existed.

Who? Hug who?

He did not mind; after all, the Zerg looked quite huggable.

Curled up in his arms, the sensation likely would not be bad.

The problem was that his mate had always detested the so-called intimacy between partners. In his eyes, such clingy, soft behavior only proved one’s own weakness. Only “trash” would waste time on such mushy and meaningless things.

If he dared to bring his mate into his arms now, once the other party recovered his memory, that cold, ethereal Excellency would likely glare at him again with eyes as if looking at garbage.

Wait, why did I use the word “again”?

Ignoring the slight itch in his heart caused by the Zerg’s request, Igris patiently explained, “Ours is a political marriage.” He added, “The relationship between us is perhaps not as… intimate as you might imagine, my mate.”

The conversation should have ended there.

Even the youngest and most ignorant of the high-privileged species should understand what a “political marriage” represented. It meant fake intimacy, limited trust, perpetual distance, and infinite vigilance.

However…

The young Excellency blinked, his expression becoming even more confused. He hesitated for a few seconds and asked uncomprehendingly, “So, I cannot?”

Because it was a political marriage, he could not be hugged?

Igris was speechless for a moment.

Because it was a political marriage, he could not comfort his mate when he needed it. Neither the marriage law nor the simple requirements of Zerg society for a husband contained such absurd regulations.

He looked at the Zerg opposite him.

The young Excellency seemed not to know what a “political marriage” meant, or perhaps he knew, but he did not take it to heart. He only lowered his eyelashes, looking at him with a mix of frustration, silence, and helplessness.

Seven points of lethality, placed on that face which was usually cold and devoid of emotional fluctuation, instantly turned into ten.

So much so that a simple refusal, when applied to him, seemed like a heinous crime.

Igris retreated, compromising: “If you need it, of course you can.”

He sat down by the bed and carefully took the Zerg into his arms. The latter found a spot in his arms and curled up obediently. After closing his eyes to feel it for a moment, he seemed to feel that something was missing. The Zerg opened his eyes, grabbed his shoulder, observed his surroundings for a while, and then reached out to poke his arm.

He reminded him, “Hand.”

Igris: “…?”

He glanced at the large “snowball” in his arms. The latter looked back at him obediently. Seeing that he did not move, the Zerg tilted his head in confusion, his tail hook reaching out silently, poking his hand as if urging him.

Facts proved that compromise was a matter that only ever happened either zero times or countless times.

Igris resignedly adjusted his posture, tentatively wrapping his arms around the Zerg’s body, locking him firmly in his embrace.

“Also, the blanket.”

He pulled up the blanket.

On one side was a warm embrace, on the other was a soft blanket. Feeling the breath of his husband surrounding him and his need for security satisfied, the Zerg’s eyes narrowed comfortably. He rubbed his face against the other’s, finally calming down, and began to have the interest and desire to explore other things.

He asked curiously, “What kind of Zerg was I before I lost my memory?”

Rarely so close to his mate, Igris tried his best to ignore the burning temperature of the snowball in his arms and told the truth: “You were a very formidable Zerg.”

Always calm, rational, and impeccable.

He was his most important ally and also the opponent he guarded against the most.

And the “little ancestor” who had just been “freshly baked” today, whom he would need to coax with gentle words and careful service for a long time to come, now lazily curled up in his arms, listening to him tell stories.

The young Excellency’s eyes flickered. As if by accident, he asked casually, “Am I more formidable than you?”

This was a question that was difficult to answer directly.

The premise of comparison was usually total opposition, but between him and his mate, cooperation had always far outweighed confrontation, so naturally, there was no way to determine who was superior. But this obviously did not affect the Councilor’s ability to act reasonable and objective, speaking confidently without hesitation: “That must be me who is more formidable.”

After saying this, he nodded quite seriously, as if emphasizing the truth of his words.

Noah: “…”

The Zerg stopped speaking.

His expression remained cold, and he seemed to have no reaction, but he silently buried his cheek into the quilt, leaving only his disgruntled back of his head to the other party.

Igris: “…”

One second.

Two seconds.

Three seconds.

Igris decided to concede: “Alright, actually it is just my ego being too strong; I did not want to admit that I was not as formidable as you, so I lied to you just now. The truth is that we are both very formidable, the kind that are neck-and-neck, otherwise we would not have married, right? Really, I did not lie to you this time.”

“Still unhappy?”

“My fault, my fault. I said the wrong thing. You are formidable, you are the most formidable. In the whole Federation, who does not know that if you, Excellency Noah, say to head East, I would not dare glance to the West. Do not be angry anymore. Is it not stuffy to bury your face in the quilt?”

“Are you going to talk to me?”

He coaxed him for a long while before finally coaxing the little ancestor out.

The Zerg was clearly not yet fully over his anger, but he was truly curious. He tentatively poked his head out, with some suspicion, and asked vigilantly, “Then tell me, how did we get married? Where, what was the scene, and who proposed it?”

Igris felt a stir in his heart and lowered his eyes to look at him.

The Zerg was curled up obediently in his arms, his eyes filled with an unprecedented closeness and reliance. However, for some reason, looking at the Zerg before him, what appeared in Igris’s mind was that silent night three years ago, when the twenty-five-year-old Noah Villoria raised his eyes and cast a calm, indifferent glance.

His memory was instantly pulled back three years.

It was a rescue mission.

He was ordered to rescue a high-ranking Excellency held hostage by rebel forces. Along the way, he had “accidentally” knocked down a dozen elite military Zerg squads from different legions that had received the same mission. He then turned around at the starship’s command center and bumped into his target, who was supposed to be coerced.

In the ship.

The sounds of screaming, cursing, and wailing followed one after another, yet the young Noah Villoria only supported his face, coldly watching the rebel commander and his second-in-command fight each other for his possession, nearly beating each other to death.

The scene was too full of contrast. Igris admired the wretched and ugly postures of the two peers for a while and could not help but compliment: “Are all the high-ranking Excellencies these days so brutal?”

Hearing the voice.

The young Zerg turned his head carelessly, raised his eyes, and met his gaze.

The world suddenly went quiet.

The white fluorescent tubes shattered one after another, fragments like snow falling from the ceiling. The Zerg’s expression remained calm, and he leaned lazily against the rotating chair, looking indifferent. Only when his gaze swept over the military Zergs who had also fallen to the ground behind the other party did he coldly raise an eyebrow and politely retort:

“Not at all, I think you, sir, are also quite wicked.”

He paused.

As if thinking of something interesting.

Amidst the billowing smoke and fire, his future mate, the twenty-five-year-old Noah Villoria, lifted his chin slightly and looked up at him. One standing, one sitting, one carefree, one in dire need of rescue. Yet, the one in the inferior position curled the corners of his mouth with a calm demeanor.

His expression was cold, and he was insanely arrogant.

He asked, “Would you like to consider joining me in a grand undertaking of seizing power?”

Behind him, thousands of instruments exploded simultaneously, spewing out weak electric arcs, like butterfly fireworks scattering in the air.

That was a moment that would make any life in this world feel a heartbeat.

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