Calhoun had changed the canvas he had been making use of which was before Madeline had fallen asleep. He had been looking forward to painting her earlier, but what he saw right now was something that he wanted to capture and paint on the empty canvas with colours that surrounded the girl on the couch. The tips of his fingers were dusted in black because of the constant touch of the charcoal that he was holding to draw her.
Madeline was the art he could draw thousands of times and would never tire out of it. For someone who kept her guard up since the time she came to know who he was, she right now slept on the couch, defenceless and vulnerable without knowing the dangers of the castle or Calhoun.
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