Fingers gentle but firm wrapped a thin wrist and drew her hands away from her arms, capturing them in his own long-fingered appendages. "Lettie," he murmured as soothingly as he could, and his body was so close to hers but gave off no warmth except for that of his personality. He could've been a pillar, a marble column set to hold up a building or a crumbling soul.
She was such a beautiful creature, her damages deeper than anyone could've fathomed. When her guardians had approached him about taking on the half-demon he hadn't batted a lash as they stated the laundry list of her curse; instead he had pictured a girl lost and broken, desperate for affection and socialization, locked away like a fairytale princess in a tower. He'd always had a streak of the romantic in him, and it had only grown wider with age. He had willingly taken her on as his ward at the carnival, had assured her prior handlers that she'd be well cared for. He had not reneged yet, and had no intention of doing so.
She created so much loveliness in his life, after all. Painting the girls until they looked like birds or beasts or butterflies or monsters from nightmares, depending on their routines; painting the canvases and tents and even once or twice the walls of various structures, her face screwed up in concentration, her eyes unreadable behind her mirrored sunglasses. She was a cornucopia of chaotic emotion and unpredictable danger, and it thrilled the savage side of him even as it saddened the humane one. If anyone could be truly lost, Lettie was among the closest he could imagine to the concept.
"I could bring you something," he offered, his lips touching her hair again. "If you don't want to stop painting."