If it was anyone else but Jaenelle, the hit to his shoulder would have pushed him dangerously close to the Killing Edge. Her, however, it actually made him smile. "Males are snarly by our very nature," he gloated, attempting to push the desire that uncoiled back down where it belonged. Along with it, he tried desperately to ignore the want to kiss that pout from her lips. The dualities were going to kill him. That's all there was to it.
"At least someone did something," Daemon muttered under his breath. Throwing her into a lake was the least bit of a punishment, though whatever she did to Lucivar with pickleberries, he wasn't quite sure he wanted to know. It sounded painful and that's all there was to it.
The informal tone was gone and Daemon raised his head at the use of his formal title. He slipped back to Protocol, wondering if he had said something he shouldn't have. At this point, it could have been anything, couldn't it?
"Seven... seven years?" Daemon stuttered, wrapping his arms around hismelf. How was he supposed to make that up? Or, in this case, how was he to push his mind forward the seven years? To resolve the differences his mind knew and his eyes saw? Daemon nodded in her direction, wanting to listen, needing to know more. "In... in your time, how did I come back to you?" It was as much as he could ask about his condition. He had been in the Twisted Kingdom, he didn't want to think what it had done to him.