The broken warbler felt Sanshoku’s vines curl against his fur, and heard the seductive lilt to her voice . . . some part of him long buried since Ember’s blatant and angry rejection began to burn hot again. He had used to love fun. He had loved to laugh with his siblings, his mother . . . the war had been the first undoing of that, when Kára and Kruam had died and he had very nearly followed them. When his mother Irina was dethroned, when their family lost everything. And that had cost Rambaldi his then-soulmate, a beautiful and fiery Dawnshire girl. But maybe she had been too fiery for him. Sanshoku - Sanshoku -
He couldn’t think. Rambaldi took a step back. His resolve was crumbling. That sultry look. The smell of her, salt and seduction. Those glowing eyes, too. What was that other bloodline? At times it made the sly cream-blanketed Tribrid look nearly ethereal.

“So tell me when you’re gonna let me in.”