"Owww! Dammit!"

Elena slams the curling iron down on the bathroom counter, and tilts her neck upward to examine the new red welt on her neck. "Get a hold of yourself, Elena," she mutters to herself, as she delicately presses her fingers along the bruise, wincing lightly at the pain.

Taking a step backward and turning to her left, she examines herself critically in the full-length mirror on the back of her door. The image staring back at her is, honestly, pretty shocking. And this is coming from a girl who's witnessed MANY shocking things, over the past couple of months. The dark probing eyes, heavily accented with mascara, the jet black eyeliner and silver eye shadow, the blood red lipstick, her brunette hair painstakingly fashioned into tight ringlets, gently cascading down her back, the black denim jacket, the pushup bra, the skinny jeans, and F*&k Me heels . . . all of it together, make Elena look like a completely different person. She looks like . . . HER.

"Hi . . . I'm Katherine," Elena coos at the mirror, confidently, her hand placed seductively on her hip.

Not bad, The Petrova Doppelganger grudgingly admits to herself. This could work. Correction. This has to work.

"Pretty good, actually. But Katherine would never go anywhere with that curling iron burn on her neck. It looks like a hickey. And hickeys, are SO last season," rasps a deep masculine voice in Elena's ear that sends chills down her spine.

Elena was so focused on her new appearance, and her admittedly complicated plans for the night ahead . . . plans that could end up getting them all killed . . . that she didn't even notice him come in. She stares at the image of the two of them reflected back at her from the mirror. Damon and Katherine . . . Katherine and Damon. Even she had to admit, they made for a scorching hot couple.

"Does that hurt?" Damon inquires, placing a cold finger on the bruise.

Elena shuts her eyes and takes a deep breath. "No . . . it's fine. I'm fine," Elena lies, subtly moving away from Damon's touch, uncomfortable with the effect it's having on her. "It's just a little burn. I'm sure it will go away in a couple of hours."

"I'm sure it will," agrees Damon. "But a 'couple of hours' is a luxury we don't have."

Damon reaches around her, and extracts a small pink razor from the shower wall. Holding it firmly to his wrist, he cuts. Within a few moments, a slim trickle of thick blood has pooled along the vertical slice of skin. He then places his hand in front of her mouth. "Here you go, Katherine. Bottoms up," he offers dryly.

"I'm not drinking your blood, Damon. Nice try, though," Elena scoffs, turning her face back to the mirror, as she repositions her hair over the incriminating welt.

"Of course, not. Why should you? So, what if the fate of your . . . Soul Mate . . .," he snarks, uttering those last two words, as if they taste like turpentine on his tongue, " . . . not to mention the fate of the whole WORLD . . . hangs in the balance. Clearly, it's not worth the hassle of you having to sip from the blood of my loins."

Elena sighs, as The Big Plan plays itself out, in her unwilling subconscious. Less than 24-hours ago, Klaus had kidnapped Stefan, just like the gang had assured her that he would. Then, Katherine, impersonating Elena, tearfully confronted Klaus, offering herself to him as the Petrova Doppelganger, in exchange for the promise of Stefan's safety.

Tonight, when the full moon rises, the Sacrifice will be performed. And, if what Elijah says is true, Klaus will be weakened during its performance. But Katherine, being a vampire, obviously, can't die during it, no matter how deeply she's cut. And before Klaus has a moment to react to this "unfortunate" turn of events, Elena, dressed as Katherine, will approach Klaus from behind, and stab him with the White Oak Dagger.

"What's the matter? Afraid you might actually enjoy it?" Damon jokes wryly, shaking Elena out of her reverie.

"Just shut up, and give me your hand," Elena hisses.

Before she can talk herself out of it, Elena's lips are pursed over Damon's wrist and she's . . . drinking. It's not the first time Elena has tasted blood. But it's definitely her most "casual" drinking experience, especially considering that every other time she's done this, she's been literally moments away from death . . .

Damon's blood tastes sweeter than she expected it would . . . kind of like the dessert wine she'd imbibed at a House Party she'd attended about a year back . . . back before her world had become inundated with vampires, witches, werewolves, spells, mind compulsions, and Moon Curses . . . back before her parents had died . . . back when she was just a normal high school girl, in search of a good time.

A warm tingling feeling rushes through Elena's body, and she finds herself immediately transported to another place and time . . .

It's 1864. Elena knows this instinctively, without giving it much thought or analysis. It's the day of the Founder's Day Ball. And she's in the Grand Ballroom of the Lockwood Mansion Stefan. They are both dressed in period garb, and are dancing together. Sighing, Elena rests her head gently on Stefan's shoulder, feeling his chest rise and fall in time with the music. When the song ends, she tilts her head up to kiss him.

This kiss is different than the countless ones she's shared with Stefan, ever since they started dating nearly a year ago. It's passionate, and all-enveloping, making her unquenchably thirsty for more of those smooth lips . . . his warmth . . . his satiny smooth tongue. It is, without a doubt, the most amazing kiss she's ever experienced. A soft moan escapes her lips, as she breathes in his unique scent, which is somehow different this time, muskier and more manly.

But, when Elena pulls away, she realizes that the man she is kissing is not Stefan at all . . . It's . . . . Damon.

Her lips still latched onto Damon's skin, Elena blinks, and the scene shifts. Now, it's Present Day . . . or close to it. Elena is standing in her bedroom, in her pajamas. Her bedroom window is open, and there is a distinct chill in the air. The scene she is experiencing is both entirely familiar to her, and completely unfamiliar, at the same time. Damon is standing in front of her, dressed in all black. Clutched between Damon's fingers is Elena's vervain necklace, its metallic chain shimmering in the moonlight.

"I just have to say it once. You just need to hear it. I love you, Elena," says Damon, as he stares deeply into her eyes, while she feels his cool breath on her face. "And it's because I love you that I can't be selfish with you . . . And why you can't know this."

Damon shakes his head, willing the tears forming in the corners of his eyes to go away. And yet, the pools of liquid keep on forming, threatening to break free. "I don't deserve you. But my brother does."

Damon leans in toward Elena, gently brushing his lips against her forehead. She wants to speak, but finds that all words have escaped her. She wants to move, but finds her feet cemented to the hard wood floor. "God, I wish you didn't have to forget this," he says, with a pained determination and finality that shakes Elena to her core. "But you do."

Elena yanks her head upward, shocked and embarrassed by her fantasy. Because that was all it was, right? A fantasy? An inconvenient hallucination, brought on by the intimate act of drinking Damon's blood? Or was it something more?

Feeling dizzy, Elena takes a step backward from Damon, nearly tripping over her own feet, as she woozily settles herself down on the edge of the bathtub. Elena slowly raises her arm toward her neck, and gently massages it with her fingers. The bruise has completely healed, leaving only a gentle feeling of softness and warmth behind.

Damon is staring at her, his eyes, wide with concern and . . . something she's not quite willing to think about right now. Then, in a split second, the gentleness and sweetness in Damon's face, disappears, willed away by the Mask of Cocksure Bravado, with which Elena has become so familiar over these past few months.

"Was it as good for you, as it was for me?" Damon snarks, eyebrows arched in Classic Damon Fashion, as he effortlessly launches into that maddening "Eye Thing" he always does.

Raising his hand to his face, for inspection, Damon exaggeratedly rubs with his thumb at the red lip-shaped mark on his, now-completely healed wrist. The long cut that resided there, just moments ago, is nothing more than a fleeting memory. Damon then turns on the faucet, letting the cool water run across his arm for a few seconds, before deftly scrubbing all remnants of Elena's (or, perhaps, more accurately, Katherine's) lips off his skin.

"You may want to retouch that lipstick of yours," Damon notes wryly, before exiting the bathroom.

Once he is gone, Elena finds herself, once again, staring at her reflection in the mirror, feeling more uncertain of herself, than ever before. "Who the hell are you, Elena Gilbert?" She inquires out loud.

4