Claimed By Fire & Ice

Duplicated Sin

Sleep was supposed to be my salvation.

A soft, merciful blackout. A reset button.

Instead, it was a prison where his ghost prowled every corner of my mind.

Jax.

I only knew him for a single night, and still, he clung to me like smoke. Even when I closed my eyes, I could smell him, leather and gasoline, danger wrapped in heat. His presence clung to me the way humidity sticks to skin: irritating, heavy, impossible to shake.

Not that I wanted it. Not really.

I told myself it was just shock. That he’d bulldozed into my life at the exact wrong time, when I was fragile and raw and stupidly vulnerable. That’s why he’d left a mark. Like a mosquito bite; small, unwanted, yet impossible to stop scratching.

And yet…

I tossed all night. Sheets twisted around my body like restraints, heat prickling beneath my skin. My subconscious betrayed me with flickers of his voice, the scrape of it curling around my name like barbed wire, the ghost of his chest pressed against my back when he’d shielded me.

It was ridiculous. I’d barely exchanged a handful of words with the man, and already my body reacted like I’d known him for years. My ex had been cruel, manipulative, but at least predictable. Jax? He was chaos given form. A walking hazard sign.

And still…

I woke up with my thighs pressed together, heart racing, the taste of him lingering where there should have been nothing.

“This is insane,” I muttered to my reflection as I stumbled into the bathroom. My hair stuck out in wild tufts, my eyes shadowed from too little rest. I stuck my toothbrush into my mouth like it was a weapon, glaring at myself through the foam.

You’re not thinking about him. You’re not.

But the lie mocked me. Because even as I scrubbed at my teeth, I could still feel the phantom grip of his hand at my chin and the warning edge of his voice.

Goosebumps rippled down my arms. I shivered, furious at my own body for betraying me.

I spat into the sink and leaned closer to the mirror, whispering like I could bully the weakness out of myself. “You’re focused. You’ve got one job...literally. New job, new life. No bikers.”

The words should have grounded me. Instead, they rang hollow, drowned beneath the memory of his half-smirk, the shadow of danger that had felt more alive than anything in months.

God, what was wrong with me?

I shoved him away with a kind of desperation, forcing myself into the armor I’d chosen: a pale blouse buttoned to the throat, a fitted skirt that hugged but didn’t flaunt. Safe. Respectable. The uniform of a woman who belonged in a skyscraper, not clinging to the back of a man who smelled of smoke and lawlessness.

By the time I locked my apartment door, my hands were shaking.

This job was everything. My lifeline. My second chance to prove...to myself, to everyone...that I wasn’t the broken girl my ex had discarded. That I wasn’t weak or reckless.

I repeated it in my head with every step I took.

This job is stability. This job is security. This job is your future.

I gripped my bag so tightly the leather cut into my palm, repeating the mantra like prayer beads as the subway rattled downtown. But no matter how loud I tried to drown it out, his shadow prowled behind me, whispering reminders of heat and leather, a reminder that no matter how far I ran, Jax had branded me.

The building was impossible to miss. Glass and steel soared into the sky like a blade, its edges catching the sunlight in merciless flashes. I tilted my head back, heart hammering, knees almost buckling at the scale of it.

This was it. My future. My new life.

“Breathe,” I whispered to myself as I stepped through the glass doors, dragging Jax’s ghost behind me like an unwanted echo.

The lobby was marble and gold, the kind of cold, intimidating beauty that whispered money and power without ever needing to raise its voice.

Everything gleamed, polished floors that reflected sharp heels, gilded light fixtures that cast no warmth, only brilliance. Even the air smelled expensive, some blend of lemon polish and restraint.

Men and women in tailored suits strode past me with clipped steps, their eyes forward, their expressions unreadable. Every one of them looked like they belonged here, part of the machinery of something vast and unstoppable.

Did I?

The lump in my throat thickened as I crossed to the reception desk. My reflection ghosted across the marble counter, nervous eyes, pale blouse buttoned too tight, fingers worrying the strap of my bag.

“Aria Lane,” I managed, my voice steadier than the pulse rioting beneath my skin. “First day.”

The receptionist barely glanced up. She scanned a list, nodded, and slid a sleek black badge toward me. The emblem gleamed, a stylized crown etched into obsidian plastic. I clipped it onto my blouse with hands that trembled despite my effort to still them.

One step closer.

The elevator ride was worse. A box of mirrors and silence that pressed against my ribs with every floor we climbed. My reflection stared back at me from all angles, reminding me of everything I wasn’t: confident, polished, powerful.

Each ding of the passing floor felt like a countdown.

By the time the doors slid open at the very top, my breath was shallow, my palms damp.

A woman with a practiced smile ushered me down a hall lined with frosted glass and steel, the kind of hallway where secrets were born. She opened the boardroom door, and I stepped inside.

And that’s when I saw him.

I froze.

My heart stalled, then slammed so hard against my ribs I thought it might break free.

Him.

For a split second, I swore it was Jax. My mind went blank, lungs locked. I was back in the smoke-hazed bar, leather brushing my arm, his voice curling around me like sin.

But no.

Not him.

The man at the head of the table wasn’t danger wrapped in leather. He wasn’t stubble and smirk and chaos. He was precision made flesh.

Charcoal-gray suit, cut razor-sharp. A silk tie knotted with the kind of perfection that screamed money and discipline. His jaw, clean-shaven, so sharp it looked like it could cut glass.

But the face...God, the face.

Sharp cheekbones. A mouth set in unforgiving lines. And those eyes. Cold, cutting, the exact storm-gray shade that had branded me in the dark.

I choked on my own breath. My lips shaped a whisper before I could stop it.

“Jax...”

The name cracked in the silence, so faint I thought maybe no one had heard.

But he had.

The man’s gaze flicked to me like a blade, and for the barest fraction of a second, confusion shadowed his eyes. Then it was gone, replaced with a chill so absolute it stole the air from my lungs.

There was no spark of recognition. No teasing smirk. No warmth at all.

This wasn’t Jax.

This was ice.

My grip on my bag tightened until my knuckles blanched, but it didn’t anchor me. Every nerve screamed the same impossible thing: He looks like him. He looks exactly like him.

“Aria Lane?” The HR director’s voice cut through the haze, jolting me. “This is Mr. Jason Black. Our CEO.”

Black.

The name rang in the room like a gavel. Heavy. Final. The kind of name whispered in boardrooms and splashed across glossy headlines.

He didn’t rise. Didn’t offer his hand. Just watched me with the kind of assessing stare that stripped flesh from bone.

And when he finally spoke, his voice was carved from iron and silk.

“Work for me,” Jason Black said, each word measured, absolute. His eyes locked on mine, unflinching. “You give me everything. Understood?”

The room spun. My chest squeezed tight, as if the air had been sucked away.

I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

Because in that moment, one thought thundered through me, relentless, impossible, and terrifying.

Oh my God. There are two of them.