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"Did you enjoy it, Anael?" Zachariah demands, and keeps demanding. Zachariah, who has always been her inferior and has always known it within himself and has never truly been able to understand why. Presiding over her punishment, he returns her again and again to first mouthfuls of chocolate cake, to curling up in front of the fireplace on winter evenings, to skinny-dipping on a clear summer midnight with her friends.

"Did you enjoy it, Anael?" Zachariah demands, and she's in the back of Dean's car, Dean's broad hands clutching worshipfully at her hips as she rides him slowly. The hard slide of him inside her draws moans from her throat; his kiss-bitten lips are parted, and he watches her move above him as if looking away would damn him back to Hell. The air in the car is humid with their breathing and the heat of their bodies, and it condenses on the cold windows until they're opaque, until there's nothing in the world but Anna-- and Dean-- and please-- and --yes. Nothing but the needy push of their hips, the stroke and tangle of their tongues; the slick rub of Dean's thumb on her clit and the spasm as she comes, the jerk and soft curse as he follows.

It's what Zachariah considers the crown jewel of his arsenal: God's gift of sensory faculties, touch and taste and sight and smell and sound, employed wholly in the service of carnality, of something as base and filthy and human as lust. Zachariah believes, with all his being, that Anna's memories of having enjoyed such things are a penance. That they torment her.

They are, of course; they do. But not the way he intends. Not for, or with, shame.

"Did you enjoy it, Anael?" Zachariah demands, and keeps demanding, and grows angrier every time because he cannot understand that he is addressing the wrong person, or why Anna's answer, every time, is, "Yes."