A/N: Alright. So it wasn't a one-shot. I posted Trade Negotiations and the Muse just took off, and I am but a helpless fool, subject to her whims. I have two more chapters following this one, and they will be posted soon.

She did not like his guards. She especially did not like that one.

Elismyra squints in her displeasure, watching the woman in gleaming elven armor as she dutifully follows Ondolemar around the Keep. She knew her name - Twyll or Dwyll or something equally boring - and she knew precisely what was on her mind. It was on her own, after all.

As a general rule, Elismyra despised anything even remotely affiliated with the Thalmor taint; it gave her race a bad name, not mention had utterly destroyed millions of families and lives, and was a dark, horrific stain on her people's history. She had no doubt the Aldmer were spinning in their burial crypts like a watermill in a windstorm, and she took every opportunity to inform the Justiciars of her opinions, Ondolemar himself included.

But that woman got her blood boiling like nothing else. They way her honeyed eyes followed the slope of his shoulders down to his tapered waist, how she fluttered her lashes at him at every convenience, the way her lips quirked up just so -

Her dovahsil is decidedly not pleased, but she knows if she mentions it to him it will do nothing but fan the flames of his already impossible ego. So she does her best to let it go.

Today, however, her patience has already been worn thin. Elenwen's idiotic henchmen were hunting her on the roads, their execution orders laughable in their simplicity, and she was quickly tiring of the necessity of disguising her relationship with Ondolemar - if it could even be called that. The threat of a long and painful death if his superior found out he was fucking her greatest enemy was enough to keep them both in line, although Elismyra goes along with it mostly for his sake; as far as she is concerned, Elenwen could rot in the Void and take her screeching politics with her.

Hence why she does nothing as the desperate chit throws herself at her mate.

She is watching them all from the shadows, perched atop one of the crumbling pillars of the Keep as she waits for his guards to retire so they may speak. Ondolemar assures her they are unaware of her identity, but she has been in Elenwen's dungeons before and has no desire to see him hauled off there. So she waits, and watches, and seethes.

Twyll - or whatever her name is - is being particularly determined today. She haunts his steps, her perfect little nose and beautiful eyes and svelte figure on prominent display in her sweeping golden plate, and she makes sure to exaggerate the swing of her hips when she is in his view. Elismyra growls to herself, her beast pushing under her skin because he is hers, but she quiets it with a sharp rebuke.

And then the bitch touches his arm, as he sits at his desk, and Elismyra decides to the Void with decency.

She has never been one for such petty displays of rampant jealousy, and she is inclined to blame her wolf and her dragon soul; both possessive, territorial creatures with a mind all their own. So she is in firm denial of her own actions as she slides from the pillar to the dusty floor below, pulling the shrouded cowl from her face as she waltzes up the grand staircase.

The male guard, the one who sneers at her and calls her a traitor, draws his sword as she comes into view. "Halt!" he barks at her, and she quirks a brow, amused. "State your business."

"Pleasure," she purrs, allowing her lips to curve into a slow smile, and at the sound of her voice, Ondolemar turns from his letters. The crooked smirk that flashes across his face is only for her, and it is gone almost as soon as it appears.

The woman at his side stiffens, narrowing her brilliant eyes, and Elismyra juts her chin out at her as she cocks a hip. The dragonbone sword at her side swings in a quiet warning, and if a little wisp of lightning crackles over her skin, well. It's not her fault.

"Your name, outsider," the woman demands, spitting the insult with a venom Elismyra is only too happy to match.

"Vylara," she lies easily, twirling a strand of blood red hair around her finger. "Of house Merilanor."

It's a bald-faced lie - her family's house seat is not nearly so prominent in the Crystal Tower - but the satisfaction of watching the girl's face freeze and whiten is far too satisfying. Ondolemar covers his startled laugh with a cough, shuffling his papers and she knows he knows what she is about, the arrogant bastard. She never should have told him she was from Cyrodiil -

"State your business," the woman repeats, as if daring her to say it again. Or perhaps hoping for a different answer this time. What clever company you keep, Ondolemar, she quips to herself.

"As I said," Elismyra drawls, drawing the words out as if she is talking to a particularly dim-witted child, "Pleasure."

"That is not - "

And the Dragonborn sneers, crossing her arms over her chest as she takes a deliberate step forward. "For an organization espousing their knowledge of superiority, you are surprisingly dense when it comes to acknowledging your betters."

Ondolemar's guffaw is impossible to hide this time, and as he snickers Elismyra watches the fierce blush spread across her opponent's cheeks. Her mouth presses down into a razor-thin line, and with a disgusted huff, she sheathes her flimsy dagger and stalks away. Elismyra's beast is entirely too smug as she watches her sulk.

Knowing she is still watching, Elismyra makes sure to trail her fingers slowly across Ondolemar's shoulders as she steps into his space. He smirks widely at his desk, his green eyes glinting with mirth, and she notices his correspondence has been cast aside in an untidy pile.

To drive the point home, she drapes her arms around his neck and nibbles at the tip of his ear, listening the sharp hitch in his breathing with no small amount of pride. She can feel the hot waves of loathing radiating from his babysitter's body, not twenty feet away, and it is her turn to chuckle when he shifts to look at her from the corner of his eye.

"How intriguing," he murmurs to her, that infuriatingly handsome smile spreading wider. "The almighty Dragonborn is prone to jealousy. It seems one does learn something every day."

"Shut up," she hisses in his ear, but she is far from angry. "The dovahkiin suffers no ronits, dii yuvon fahliil." And because she knows his love for the guttural, exotic language of the dov is a surefire way to goad him into shoving her into a wall, she growls, "Hi los dii, nu ahrk mahfaeraak."

He shoves away from his desk and stands abruptly, nearly throwing her off balance, and she only just manages to swallow her laughter when he barks, "Twylleria, Gerenon. I am retiring for the evening. You are dismissed." And the stupid vahdin has the audacity to actually snarl as she whirls on her heel. Elismyra makes a rude gesture at her back as she storms away, her male counterpart sighing audibly.

Ondolemar's lips are on her scarcely a second after they have disappeared, and she chuckles into his mouth as he turns and walks her backward toward his desk. "Wicked, wicked woman," he breathes when he pulls away, hands roaming down her sides already. "Always wearing my patience thin."

Elismyra is all smooth confidence and heady words as she growls, "I could be far more wicked in a locked bedroom, smoliin mun." And to emphasize her point, she draws his lower lip into her mouth and sucks. "Argis is travelling. Vlindril Hall is empty."

Ondolemar wastes no time in hauling her down the staircase, and her gleeful cackling booms about the Keep as the doors slam closed.