A Kingdom of Two
The air was thick with the scent of gunpowder and blood. The warehouse was dark, the flickering light from a single overhead bulb casting long shadows over the bodies littering the floor.
Harry stood in the center of it all, breathing heavily, gun warm in his grip.
It had been an ambush. Another one.
But this time, they weren’t just after him. They were after Tom.
The moment he’d heard the gunfire from the other side of the compound, something inside him snapped. There was no hesitation. No second-guessing. Harry had moved like a ghost through the chaos, taking down anyone in his path.
And now, there was only one left.
The traitor knelt before him, blood dripping from his split lip. His hands trembled where they clutched at his stomach wound.
"Please," the man croaked, voice hoarse with pain.
Harry tilted his head. "Funny," he murmured. "People like you always beg when it’s too late."
There was no mercy in his voice. No hesitation in the way he raised the gun.
A single shot.
A final breath.
And then, silence.
Harry exhaled, lowering his weapon, the adrenaline still thrumming beneath his skin. He turned, footsteps echoing as he moved toward the private hallway where he knew Tom had been.
The sight of him standing there, unharmed but visibly furious, made something in Harry’s chest unclench.
Tom’s eyes flicked over him, sharp and assessing. "You’re covered in blood," he observed, voice deceptively calm.
Harry wiped a streak of it from his cheek. "Not mine."
Tom’s lips curved, but his gaze remained dark. "You went after them alone."
"They went after you."
A muscle in Tom’s jaw ticked. "And if you had died?"
Harry held his gaze, unwavering. "Then I would have died making sure they didn’t get to you."
Something dangerous flickered in Tom’s eyes, something raw.
Then, without warning, he closed the distance between them, gripping Harry’s chin between his fingers.
"You’re mine," Tom murmured, voice low, possessive. "You don’t get to die on me."
Harry’s breath hitched. "And you don’t get to be reckless, either."
Tom chuckled, thumb brushing over Harry’s lower lip, smearing the blood there. "Are you scolding me?"
"Obviously."
Tom’s grip tightened for a moment before he leaned in, pressing his forehead to Harry’s.
"You drive me insane," Tom murmured.
"Likewise," Harry admitted.
Then, Tom kissed him.
It was rough, desperate, teeth and tongues clashing, the taste of blood and fire between them. The world could burn around them, bodies could fall, but this—this was theirs.
Tom pulled back just enough to murmur against his lips, "You were never meant to beg, Harry. But you will always belong to me."
Harry smirked. "As long as you belong to me too."
Tom’s laughter was dark and indulgent. "Always."
The war wasn’t over. It never would be. But in this moment, they had won.
Together.