Samandriel lowered his gaze and nodded. "I know how to take pain," he said quietly. "I've been trained for that, but if I fall back on my training and shut myself off to silence, to disconnect from what's happening to me... It's only going to make it that much worse." Demons knew what they were doing, had a reputation for such things. With the right weapon in his hand, Samandriel had no doubt that Clint could break through that training and have him screaming in true pain, writhing in agony.
"If that happens... I don't want to be the broken shell of an angel that might result. I don't want Mitchell blaming himself for it and I don't want my sister risking so very much just so she can burn a vampire and anything that happens to be nearby to the ground." Whether or not demons loved was irrelevant. Clint clearly cared about his sister, and that had to be enough for him to at least attempt to protect her from herself.
He slipped gracefully to his knees, even now clearly more peacemaker than he'd ever been suited to being a soldier. Head bowed, he whispered, "Please, Master. Let it be you." A vampire couldn't do to him nearly what a demon could, and truly, Samandriel didn't need the pain. He was still Imagination. He could take gentle touches and whispered instructions and weave them into so much more in his own mind. Even softer, nearing desperate he said again, "Please."