That night had changed everything for her.

She had been chained up, blind folded, half drowned, whipped repetitively and left to bleed in the raw heat. Her body had hurt everywhere – spreading from the dull ache of her surely split lip to the sting of the open welts upon her back. When the beatings had first begun, nearly a week earlier, she had wept. Tears had fled her eyes, making hasty trails down the smooth expanse of her cheeks where they then dropped off to dissipate in the dirt beneath her knees. Crying out had been more reflexive, something beyond her control even after she had been unpleasantly reminded that no one could hear her – no one would.

At the beginning of the day (or at least, what she thought was the beginning) she had come to accept that she would die there – alone, in the pathetic excuse for a shack with her body bloody and bruised and broken. No matter how many times she pushed herself to find hope or faith or anything – she felt the doubt closing in, choking her. Elena had fully doubted that it could get worse than the present.

And then he arrived.

She had known nothing of him beyond a few raw details. He had reeked of cigars – the knockoff type, bottom of the barrel. His palms had been sweaty, as they had mapped her body and roamed places that made her stomach roll at the mere memory. His grunts had echoed in the small enclosure. His weight had swallowed her in the darkness. She never got the chance to see his face. It was rough, it was fast and it left her desperately wishing for death. In the moments following what had been the worst night of her life, Elena had prayed for the grim reaper to take her.

And then her father had arrived and rescued what remained of her.

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Elena toyed with the ballpoint pen between fine fingers as she stared out at the ocean beyond the window that existed just beyond her desk. Before her sat a pile of paperwork – paperwork to help others begin new lives – that was patiently waiting her care. There were bank accounts to sort, real estate purchases to make, and the only thing that appeared within the depths of her mind was the face of an American man who she knew nothing about.

Perhaps nothing was a stretch, as she did indeed know more about Lincoln Burrows than she knew about the vast majority of the people that surrounded her. She knew that he had been framed for a murder that he hadn't committed. She knew that he had a teenaged son. She knew that he had spent far too long running from a past that didn't wish to release its grasp upon him. She knew what his mouth tasted like.

"Are you ignoring me? Helllloooo?"

The brunette snapped back to the present, wrenching her eyes from the window to meet the impatient gaze of the woman opposite her, who sported a bemused grin. "Paging Elena Capone, time to re-enter the planet," Tori said as white teeth flashed against tanned skin. With the flick of her hand, a dirty blonde braid moved to settle against her back as she perched herself upon the edge of Elena's desk. "Who is he?" she proceeded, "And don't tell me no one, or ask who, or any of the other nonsense you try to pull when I ask you a question."

A sigh departed the brunette's lips as she leaned back in the office chair that she occupied. "Don't you have anything better to do? Surely the ink cartridge needs changing or some equally… pressing."

"Hardy har har - very funny. You can try to brush me off, but I'm persistent," she challenged, nearly causing Elena to cringe. Indeed, Tori were nothing if not unrelenting. The woman had crossed paths with Elena nearly two years prior, when she had first relocated to Venezuela and begun to assist individuals fleeing some sort of history. Tori had been running from a man who enjoyed hitting her only slightly more than he enjoyed trafficking crystal meth. After getting her moved into a new beach house, she had offered to employ the then terrified woman. With time, they had grown close and she had been pleased to partake in her rehabilitation.

Of course, those years of friendship were now coming back to bite her.

"Just a lot to do," she commented, motioning to the files before her, "and I better get back to it." It was suggestive enough to indicate that the conversation wasn't open for discussion. It seemed to be an ongoing theme in her life, after all.

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For someone who spent so much time putting the pieces back together in the lives of others, Elena had failed to do so properly for herself. She had relocated to Venezuela on her father's dime. After her rescue, and proper medical care, Armando Capone had assured that his daughter had everything that she could possibly wish for in her newly developed existence. She had more money than she knew what to do with, a stunning estate on the coast and his promise that she would be harmed no longer.

Of course, all the money in the world couldn't make the nightmares or the scars disappear.

The estate felt wrong – too big, and cold – and for that reason, she sold it. She put the money in the bank and bought a far smaller home that was slightly removed from the people that milled about the innards of Caracas. It was far from perfect, composed primarily of quirky imperfections that made her feel more balanced – more at ease. After all, no longer was she an image of excellence. No matter what her exterior portrayed as her bruises lightened and her scars began to regenerate new skin, her interior was something dark and ugly, something permanently marred.

At night, she would awake tangled in her sheets, drenched in sweat and crying out as she envisioned her attackers once more. Her scars would burn as she would slip out the sliding glass doors into the backyard so that she could look up at the stars and remember how to breathe easy. No matter how many times she convinced herself that it was over, the ugly demons from her past would rear their tormented heads to contradict her beliefs.

It was only a small part of the reason why she had fled Lincoln's company nearly a week prior.

His kiss had felt warm – welcome and enjoyable. The slight graze of his stubble had left a burn upon her cheek that had her mind drifting to him, the sight of him with his shirt hanging open in the moonlight. And then he had touched her breast and everything had gone to black, as though her mind and body had simply shut down at the stimulation. Her attacker, the one who had changed everything, had not kissed her. He had avoided her mouth altogether, in fact, and had thus left kissing as a pure act.

Everything else, however, had been corrupted.

The moment that Lincoln had touched her, she had only felt -him- – groping her, dragging her pants down, forcing himself upon her. Nausea pounded through her at the memory and she desperately wished to drown out the unwanted sensory recollection. She needed a distraction. She needed something to get -him- out of her mind.

It was the motivation behind the run that she had embarked on. Her feet pounded against the dirt as she ran. There was nothing slow or delicate about the pace either. If anyone observed her, it would become near painfully obvious that she was running from something in desperation. Sweat beaded upon her tanned skin as her breath moved through her nose and mouth systematically. It didn't matter where she ran, of course – there was no distance far enough to remove it all from her mind. For now, the temporary release would need to do.

Elena rounded the corner of the street in downtown Caracas, moving swiftly between the individuals who were sifting through items at the Farmer's Market. She had found a rhythm, one that left her void of thought. And then her name met her ears and she faltered mid-step. It was as though the noise of the city returned to her as her head turned, locking onto LJ who waved casually and offered a smile as he moved in her direction. Her hand moved upwards to wave as she came to a halt, breathing slightly elevated. "Hey!" he greeted, "how've you been? I haven't seen you around lately!"

"I'm good," she said as her voice returned to her, "I've just been busy with…" Her words trailed off as Lincoln appeared from the crowd a few feet from them, "Work." LJ appeared oblivious to her falter as he motioned to his father. "Hey I found Elena," he called, and the brunette silently counted to ten to stop the way that her heart thudded dramatically within her chest. She didn't need any additional complications within her life, and neither did Lincoln. In truth, they were comparable to fire and gasoline – dangerous and all engulfing.

"Elena," Lincoln said with a stiff nod. She deserved that. She deserved his gruffness, and in fact she welcomed it. He was easier to keep at arm's length that way – and in truth that was best for him as well. "Hi Lincoln," she responded, lips twisting upwards in the slightest manner. "Enjoying the market?"

"Always," he continued, dark eyes moving away from her to take in the crowd and she squashed the way that she immediately felt guilty by his distance. Michael and Sara were at a booth across the square. Apparently they had wandered out to enjoy the sunshine, and the produce. The other woman was clearly moving along in her pregnancy. The slight swell of her stomach was now undeniable, after all. Sara glowed, the happiness that circulated around Michael and herself clear to anyone with partial eyesight.

"Great," she retorted, the conversation taking on the form of forced and awkward. "I should probably get back to my run," she continued, "but it was nice seeing you both." LJ exchanged pleasantries of his own and Elena turned to resume her exercise as he moved in Michael and Sara's direction.

"Elena?" Her name upon his lips had her feet freezing in place and her head tipping back in his direction. She awaited the continuation of whatever thought he had conducted, whatever emotion that he wished to express – but it never came. Instead, he shook his head and ran a hand over his shortly cropped hair. "Never mind, have a good run." And before she had a chance to respond the crowd swallowed him whole.

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"Someone's here to see you!" Tori called from the waiting room of the office. Without pausing or raising her head from the file that her nose was buried within, Elena responded, "Send them in."

Footsteps moved across the floor as her hand moved over the paper before her. "If you give me one second I'll be right-" The words died in her throat as she looked up into Lincoln's gaze. "Oh. Hey." Pathetic, her mind silently informed her. Clearly it had been too long since she had kissed anyone, for she had turned into a tight lipped, awkward schoolgirl at the mere sight of the boy that she had gotten partially handsy with in his kitchen. It was time to get a grip.

"Hey," he said simply. "You can have a seat, if you want," she told him, motioning to the pair of chairs opposite her desk, "Probably a little more comfortable than standing." He made no motion to move and Elena silently cursed herself once more. The exchange couldn't have become more ungraceful had they tried.

"So… what can I do for you? Everything working out alright with the house?" Small talk was a stretch – a clear white flag of surrender for real formulated conversation. Instead of gracing her with a response to ease the bumbling words that flowed from her mouth, however, Lincoln simply stared at her with a gaze that made her heart pound dangerously hard within the confines of her chest.

"Well…" he said, leaning forward a hair, "you can tell me what happened the other night." There was clearly no escaping this one in a dignified manner. "You mean us? Kissing I mean? That was a mistake." The words sounded cold, hard, even to her. They were meant to, of course – pushing away was easy. It was far less messy than the alternative.

"A mistake," he repeated, expression blank beyond the slight furrow of his eyebrows. There was no question, merely statement and Elena found herself forcing her head to move up and down. "Yes. A mistake. Something that can't happen again." Without a word, Lincoln stood and Elena prepared herself for his hasty departure. He would be angry, of course – for she had essentially dangled something before his eyes only to unceremoniously yank it away. Instead of moving for the door, however, he proceeded to walk around the desk and lean upon the edge closest to her, facing her once more.

Her skin practically tingled at his nearness. The air seemed too thick, though not in the uncomfortable, choking way that she had grown accustomed too. The room hummed with tension. "You're right," he said simply, and her fog induced mind wondered what they were even talking about. "I'd really prefer you didn't leave like that again."

Words were lost on her as Lincoln delicately cupped her cheek in a manner that seemed impossible for a man his size. Her head tipped naturally into his touch (much to her dismay) and she bit back the sigh that rose within her throat. "It's complicated," she choked out instead, though the waiver of her own voice made her wish to growl in frustration at her own weakness.

"What isn't?"

Perhaps he had a point after all. "I don't… I mean… I don't know if I'm ready for… whatever this is." It was a confession fueled primarily by fear.

"We've got nothing but time," he told her simply, and for once Elena wondered if she found herself believing him.