The absolute last thing Adela wants? Rather, um, heated dreams about Jiri, her school archnemesis now on the opposite side of a violent, magical culture war.
Unfortunately, her subconscious disagrees. Or the magical fate potion Anamata disagrees.
Either way, Adela needs to sort out her feelings fast, before the annoying night-timed distraction becomes a possibly fatal distraction in the middle of a battle…
The second Changing Tides story, perfect for fans of slow-burn enemies-to-lovers romance—and Dramione
Fire Bright
The fourth time she woke in the night, hot, wet, and buzzing slightly all over from the lingering effects of the dream, Adela was forced to admit that she had a problem.
It was wartime. People were dying. She and Bug and Leroy were on a mission to save the world—literally, if somewhat melodramatically at times —and yet all she could think about in her spare time, all she dreamt about while sleeping, was Jiri.
That was first of all a bad thing because Jiri was a jerk and she hated him and she resented him taking up her mental real estate like this.
But also it was also a bad thing because—and this was the unfortunate bit—of what Jiri was doing in her dreams.
There was a reason she’d woken up hot and bothered, and it wasn’t because the dream had been bad.
Which was, of course, the worst part: dream Jiri was a superlative lover—not that, at seventeen, she’d had any real-life experience to compare him to—and that just added to her resentment.
And made the problem all the harder to ignore, because she hadn’t had any real-world experience in that department, so what the hell was her brain thinking here? Where was it coming up with this stuff?
Which made the problem even worse, because—and this was the bit she wanted to admit to least—what if her brain wasn’t just making this stuff up?
Jiri had freed her from his uncle’s house a month ago. Had defected from the enemy to, presumably, Adela’s own side. Had risked his life to get her out… But only after the Anamata had told him to.
Anamata, the famous, horrendously expensive potion that, when you drank it, gave you mild premonitions and the unerring ability to act in the way that best furthered your goals for the next six to twelve months, sometimes a little longer.
Anamata, which, it was rumoured, if you drank it in the right time, in the right place, with the right person, would show you your future together, whatever that might be.
Jiri had just happened to have some lying around, because of course you did when your family had gotten that filthy rich off the back of racism and inbreeding and old, old money, and he’d brought it into the filthy, squalid bedroom where his uncle had been keeping Adela prisoner, and Jiri had offered her a drink of the potion.
At five hundred thou a pop, and with the potential to save your life if ‘survival’ happened to be on your twelve-month to-do list, Adela had hardly been in a position to say no.
Especially when he’d told her that he was considering breaking her out, if the Anamata confirmed that was what he was supposed to do.
Bastard. Never mind just letting her go because it was the right thing to do.
Only—of course—there was no way to tell how much of what he’d said was the truth, because all sorcerers lied, and all sorcerers could tell when someone was lying.
All sorcerers, that was, except Adela.