As the pain and the heat and the remorse continued to boil in Crowley, he found himself drawn back to the moment by the sight of his Love so upset, eyes caught between the morose look on Zira's face, and his Mark on his chest. As if someone flipped a switch, Crowley slumped against the other demon, face pressed into his neck so he could breathe him in, rather than the smoke and ash of the room. He was still for a second, still buried deep within his lover, breath coming in shallow gasps, altogether too human for his liking. When he moved again, it would be softer, gentler, in a way. More loving, at least.
The hatred, the wrath, that was what took her away from him. Hell took her away from him. For that moment, he needed to keep it from touching his lover, keep it from taking away what was left of his soul.