Samandriel walked over to his Master, his lover, his partner and touched his face, mapping cool, pale planes as he looked up at the man he loved. "Why would I deal in anything less?" he said. "Why would I leave the only person who's looked at me and never needed me to be anything other than what I am? Who was prepared to love me and keep me safe even when he thought he'd never hear my voice. Heaven turned its back on me, John. I don't serve them. I serve you. How am I supposed to keep an eye on you and make sure you're happy if forever isn't on the table?"
Mortality hadn't ever really suited Samandriel. He'd considered staying human and getting himself killed just so he could become a demon and allow an idiot witch to summon him, but even he couldn't bring himself to do that and Heaven wasn't any kind of home he wanted to go back to ever again. Home was with Mitchell. Getting his grace back had always been priority one.
"I'm keeping my collar," he said softly, "even with all that power and glory, I'll keep my absolutely awful social standing for the next century, but yes. Yours, Mitchell. No matter who else's bed I end up in, I'm always yours."