Matteo returns in the small hours of the morning and spoons me. The chill of the night clings to him. It fills my comfy cocoon, as well as the smell of gunpowder and blood. He must have decided I'm asleep, because his breath catches in my hair as he murmurs his count down from a thousand to soothe himself to sleep. His arm weighs my hip, its fingers clench and unclench an imaginary worry-ball on top of my belly. Gosh, just how many ghosts does he bring to our bed tonight?

I twist around to face Matteo and catch his labored exhales into my lips. Then, tempted, push my tongue further in. His mouth is hot, salty and tangy. I smelled blood, now I taste it.

"Are you hurt, honey?"

"Nah." It's more a jerk of his head than a word, but a sigh of relief lifts my chest.

"So... Is it an all clear for us?"

"Yeah."

Those he killed deserve it, I'm sure. Plus, they knew he was coming, and the numbers weren't on his side. Might as well blame a wolf for killing dogs. However, I don't ask how many he's killed for this one precious yeah. I just... I don't. Never did, never will. If I knew, I wouldn't be able to sleep.

"Should we get up now?" I roll my shoulders experimentally, then reach to massage my ankle. The muscle fever is setting in, but it will be a few hours yet before it hurts like a mother. So, getting up isn't a bad idea, even though I'm cozy. "This is my best window of opportunity to move until I reach a magic place with the extra-strength Tylenol."

"No." Matteo tilts his head this way and that, till the vertebrae creak. "The sunrise is two hours from now. I can't drive in the dark."

He can. He's just afraid to drive in the dark, through the wild forest with me sitting behind him.

I let out another sigh. "Oh, honey, you're a terrible liar."

"I'm an excellent liar."

It's impossible to tell time inside our shelter, because the lighting hasn't changed since he brought me here. Even with his flashlight turned on, I can barely make out his features an inch from my nose.

I trace his lips with my tongue to detect if he is smiling. "Are you smiling, sweetie?"

"Uh-huh."

I don't need light to absorb the tactile sensations as Matteo threads his fingers through my hair. In Guatemala, with the high humidity, every day is a bad hair day for me. But his fingers are nimble. They tease out threads from the frizzled, tangled mess without hurting me and loosely braids them out of the way. The night air cools my exposed neck all the way to the earlobe. His lips follow it, brushing along the cleared skin, tickling and scratching me at the same time.

"Why weren't you wearing any pants when I found you, naughty girl?" The bassy note in his voice is enough for me to wriggle out of my pants again.

I barely wear them anyway, because the sweatpants Matteo has lent me are too large. They ride down my bum, leaving the waistline hanging around my hips.

Matteo is well aware of this, because his hand traces the naked parts, increasing the gap between the t-shirt and the sweatpants.

"I had to sacrifice my pants to make a rope. Cut it into four stripes on a spike... the one that came closest to hitting me."

I choke up, but with Matteo right next to me, the memory seems survivable. Excitement that drove me over the cliff bubbles up again, touched with sexual arousal. I whisper the rest of my story into his ear. Irene in her mask, tortured boomers, the cave with the tamarin and the hummingbird, all of it.

My voice is husky, but he growls low in his throat between the kisses I plant on him for comfort. He fills in a few details of Irene's sick game, but those kisses! They drive me nuts.

Him too, apparently, because he blurts out, "Screw Irene, screw her! I have you back!"

I agree. I need more kisses, not more morbid stuff to dwell on. It's hard to talk about what happened to me without this lubricant. "I don't know how I survived without you."

"Same here, babe." He squeezes my face between the palms of his hands. His lips land hard on mine and his hand returns to caressing my bare bum.

Not to be outdone, I cap the tenting bulge in his pants, swallowing the ancient joke. His gun clanged when he set it aside before cozying up to me. So, why ask if I know the answer: he is this happy to see me. He always is. It's one certainty in my life that makes up for his baggage. Our baggage now.

"We are getting married," I whisper in wonder. "Oh, Matteo, we really are getting married!"

With a gentle insistence, I guide the zipper over the bump, not snagging even once. Then nudge the straightened cock in the right direction.

"Damn right, we are!" Matteo strips me from the t-shirt and bra just as easily.

We work like a well-oiled mechanism with sex. The only pause is when he lifts his face from my breast. "Are you alright with it?"

I grasp his mouth into another kiss, since it's right there. Call me an opportunist, I owe up to it. "A quickie, okay?"

Honestly, that's what I'm expecting, a bit of comfort, that's all. Not to come all over him with a moan that would embarrass a she-moose in heat. After he's barely touched me! Apparently, that's a signal, because he comes in a torrent and collapses. After a second of stunned silence, he eases himself off me, fighting for breath and fighting laughter at the same time. I cradle him right back to me.

We lie exhausted for a while. In the jungle, infested with bloodthirsty enemies, far from home, the wedding do-list is fucking nonsensical. I want to rip it up and toss it away. All I need for happiness is right here, resting his forehead on my shoulder. "I just want to be married already and to hell with everything and everyone else. You?"

"It's a formality to honor the others in the family, hon. Sorry..."

As an apology for being such a don, he traces concentric circles spreading away from my belly button up to my ribs and down to the pompon. The pulse on his wrist has dropped from ultrasonic speed to resting. He drawls his words, but he probably can jump up and fight if he has to already. Fortunately, there is no need to test this guess of mine.

"Well, good thing I picked the dress then," I say sleepily.

"Really?"

"You gonna love it."

"As long as it's easy to take it off."

"Well, I dunno. It has lace... buttons... gauze..."

"Tear it off then... you wouldn't mind it, right?"

I chuckle, because I'm so wonderfully happy now, I'd marry him in what I'm wearing now in front of the entire urban population of L.A.

We spend time before sunrise in a dreamy post-coital daze, then clean up the best we can, pack everything and sneak out of our shelter.

The morning is unexpectedly chilly here, compared to the afternoons. There's no sunshine yet to infuse the air with gold, so it is gray-green, cool, and easy to breathe. When a light breeze sneaks under the boughs to touch me behind the collar, a shiver starts there. It shakes my spine, my knees and bare feet.

Matteo shrugs out of his jacket before raking aside huge leaves piled over the secreted away bike. I accept it without arguing, despite the suspicious weight in its pockets. His body warmth lingers on it. I dig my nose into the collar after zipping it up, and, yes, his smell lingers as well. It's almost as good as coffee.

And I need a pick-me-up, because the early hour and what's yet to come puts me into a subdued mood. Just a short while ago, making love and laughing, it felt like we saw it through... alas. We're not through, not by the mile.

But we are together,I remind myself as I mount the bike and wrap my arms around Matteo's waist.We're together.

Fast and powerful machine—and I mean the bike here, not Matteo—takes us through the jungles. The ride is so smooth that I nod off... to be awakened by a sharp buzz of an alarm on Matteo's watch.

He swears under his breath, stopping for a mere second to push the off button. There's so much forcefulness in that move that my gut twists. "What... what was it?"

"A stupid reminder. Don't worry." He revs the engine up, but his shoulders are way too stiff for it to be nothing. He's lying and I can't corner him on the fucking bike to get to the truth. It'll have to wait till we get to the chopper and he's not navigating a muddy track.

"How far is the chopper yet?"

He can pretend he hasn't heard my yelp, but his back freezes into an iceberg. I'm hugging a solid, frigid mass, not a man. So cold, it gives me shivers.

Matteo mutters Soon, but I'm not convinced. "Matteo Scali! Stop protecting me! What's wrong?"

"Not now!"

He doesn't snap without a reason. So... what set him off?

There's a huge wash-out on the road there. There's one every few yards. He pushes our bike to jump it instead of going around.

Sure, this could be the reason for Matteo's clipped tone... and I've been living with this guy for three years, so that's not it.

Something is screwy. I squirm on the bike's leather seat. Can we just please, please, get to the damn chopper? Can things just go smoothly from here on, please?

Pretty please, with a cherry on top?