I Married a Rogue, So Why Is My Family Kneeling to Him

Brock cut into his medium-rare steak with the theatrical confidence of a man who believed he owned the room. Across the dining table, my parents hung on his every word, their plates barely touched.

"The Northern perimeter guard doesn't take just anyone," Brock said, pausing to let the weight of his statement settle over the dining room. "Over four thousand applicants from every major pack in the region. Only twenty made the final cut."

"Four thousand," my father repeated, letting out an appreciative whistle. He refilled Brock’s wine glass before touching his own. "Silver Pine hasn't sent a warrior to the Northern borders in three decades. You're putting our name back on the map, son."

"It's about standards," Brock said with a humble shrug that fooled no one. "Alpha Kieran Vale doesn't tolerate weakness. He personally reviewed the final dossier. His signature was right at the top of my clearance sheet. Kieran Vale approved my name himself."

My mother beamed, placing a hand over her heart. "A personal sign-off from the Alpha King. Talia, darling, you found a true leader."

Talia leaned into Brock’s shoulder, a smug little smile curving her lips. "I told you, Mom. Brock isn't like the boys around here. He has real ambition."

I kept my eyes on my plate, cutting a piece of roasted potato. Hearing Kieran’s name thrown around so casually in my parents' dining room felt surreal. Brock spoke of him like a myth, a distant god who had bestowed a blessing from an ivory tower. To Brock, Kieran was a terrifying signature on a piece of paper.

To me, Kieran was the man who made sure my side of the bed was warm before I crawled into it and who left handwritten notes on my nightstand whenever he had dawn briefings.

"And what about your mate, Maeve?" my mother asked suddenly, her voice dropping the warm, glowing tone she used for Brock.

The table went quiet.

My father set his fork down, leaning back in his chair with narrowed eyes. "Yes, Maeve. You've been married for six months, and we haven't seen the man once. What kind of wolf doesn't introduce himself to his mate’s family?"

"He’s busy," I said evenly.

"Doing what, exactly?" Talia asked, swirling her wine. "You were always so secretive about him. Every time Mom asked, you changed the subject. Is he ashamed to show his face?"

I took a slow sip of water, feeling the cool liquid soothe the dryness in my throat. "He manages territory."

For a second, nobody spoke. Then Talia let out a sharp, amused bark of laughter.

"He manages territory?" she repeated, covering her mouth with her manicured fingers. "Oh, Maeve. You mean he's a groundskeeper? Or does he watch over some desolate dirt farm for a broke backwater pack?"

My father shook his head, looking down at his plate in disgust. "A land manager. So basically an unranked guard with a fancy title."

"I knew it," Talia said, shaking her head with exaggerated pity. "You always had terrible taste. Remember that stray dog you dragged home in middle school? The one that bit Dad's boot? You never grew out of taking in strays. Now you've tied yourself to a nobody who watches fences in the middle of nowhere."

I opened my mouth to speak. The words formed on my tongue—that Kieran didn't watch fences, that he commanded twelve sovereign territories and every garrison from the northern ridges to the coast.

Then I looked at my mother.

She wasn't curious. She wasn't concerned about whether I was treated well, whether I was safe, or whether I loved him. Her eyes held that familiar, cold satisfaction—the quiet relief that my life remained smaller, dimmer, and less impressive than Talia's.

They hadn't asked about my husband to get to know him. They asked so they could place him on their mental scale and make sure Talia was still winning.

I closed my mouth and said nothing. Explaining the truth would only sound like a desperate lie to people who had already decided what I was worth.

"Well," my mother sighed, waving a hand dismissively. "At least he works. Some people just don't have the drive to reach high ranks, and that's fine. We can't all have a Brock."

Brock puffed his chest out slightly, grinning down at his plate. "Hey, every pack needs workers at the bottom. Someone has to fix the perimeter posts."

I reached across the table for the salt shaker. As my arm moved, the cuff of my cream sweater slid back an inch, revealing the dark band resting against my wrist.

The dining room chandelier caught the surface of the metal. It didn't shine bright silver like common steel; it had an oily, dark luster, threaded with faint, iridescent veins that seemed to absorb the light.

Brock’s laughter cut off instantly.

His fork hovered an inch above his plate. His gaze locked onto my wrist, his pupils dilating in shock. The easy, arrogant posture he had held all evening vanished in a second, replaced by stiff, rigid stillness.

His reaction told me he recognized it. Anyone who had gone through the Northern garrison’s intake orientation had to study the royal insignia and lineage crests.

Black Moonsteel.

It was an ancient, nearly indestructible alloy forged exclusively in the royal foundry. It was never traded, never sold, and only gifted to one person in each generation: the direct mate of the Northern ruler.

"Where..." Brock’s voice cracked slightly. He cleared his throat, pointing a shaking finger toward my wrist. "Where did you get that bracelet?"

I glanced down at the band. "My husband gave it to me."

"Is that... Moonsteel?" Brock asked, his voice barely above a whisper. The color was draining from his cheeks. "The black runic alloy from the central vault?"

Before I could answer, Talia rolled her eyes and reached across the table, flicking my wrist with a manicured fingernail.

"Oh, give me a break, Brock," Talia scoffed. "You can buy those cheap alloy knockoffs online for twenty dollars. The internet is flooded with fake Northern designs. Every wannabe luna wears them to look important."

Brock blinked, looking between Talia and the dark band. "A knockoff? But the etching..."

"Of course it's a knockoff," my father snapped, scowling at my arm. "Maeve, take that ridiculous thing off. Walking around Silver Pine wearing fake royal jewelry is embarrassing. If someone from the council sees that, they'll think we raised a fraud who’s desperate for attention."

"It’s just tacky," my mother added, shaking her head. "Trying to pretend you have ties to the North when your husband is an unranked farm hand. Take it off before the welcome dinner tomorrow."

Brock’s shoulders slowly dropped from his ears. The panic in his eyes dissolved into an easy, relieved chuckle. "Right. Yeah. Makes sense. For a second, I thought... anyway, good replica, Maeve. Almost looked real in this lighting."

"It's pathetic is what it is," Talia muttered under her breath.

I pulled my sleeve down, covering the dark band. I didn't take it off. I didn't argue. I just let them wrap themselves in their own comfortable blindness.

Dinner ended in an uncomfortable silence. My mother began gathering the empty plates, stacking them with sharp, clattering motions.

"Maeve," she said without turning around from the sink. "Before you go dragging your bags upstairs, you should know. Your old bedroom isn't available."

I paused at the edge of the dining room. "What do you mean?"

"Talia needed more room for her seasonal wardrobe and winter coats before she moves to the Northern post," my mother replied smoothly. "We knocked down the partition last month and expanded her closet into your old room."

I looked at the hallway staircase, then back at my mother. "So where am I supposed to sleep?"

"The attic," my mother said. She wiped her hands on a dish towel, picked up a small brass key from the counter, and tossed it onto the dining table. It landed with a dull clink against the wood. "There are some extra wool blankets in the trunk up there. It’s clean enough."

She turned back to the sink, scrubbing a dish. "Besides, you're only staying for three days. It doesn't make sense to shuffle things around just for a weekend."

I turned my eyes to Talia.

My sister was sitting on the sofa, scrolling through her phone. She didn't look up. She didn't offer a half-hearted apology, nor did she suggest sharing her room. She took it as her absolute right to erase my space the moment I walked out the door.

In the past, my stomach would have twisted into knots. I would have swallowed the humiliation, offered a small, obedient smile, and said, *It's fine, Mom. Don't worry about it.* I would have spent the night freezing in the attic just to keep the peace.

Not tonight.

I walked over to the table and picked up the cold brass key. I didn't say it was fine. I didn't smile. I just closed my fingers around the metal, turned on my heel, and headed toward the dark stairs leading to the top floor.