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It wasn't Peter's scent that made Miranda so interesting. Really, it wasn't like that at all. Christina wasn't—Christina hadn't been that sort of girl. She had followed Miranda home because it was the sensible thing to do, when someone walked through her territory smelling like another wolf, and that was the extent of what she'd done because of Peter.
Something about the set of Miranda's shoulders had pulled at her, though; some angle of Miranda's jaw had kept her slinking past the windows, looking in. There was a sort of—steadiness, to her. She made the fur on the back of Christina's neck lie down flat again. Christina almost didn't want to eat her, which was really saying something.
Christina had been watching her for three days, in a normal sort of way, when Miranda left a bowl of ground meat on the porch. The only thing to do in response to that was run, and Christina did. The woods were thick by now, and her caches of meat stank deliciously of rot. She gorged herself on carrion like the wild animal she was, dangerous, antithetical to humanity.
By the next day she'd forgotten caution, though, and when she fell into place a few blocks behind Miranda's walk to the to the grocery store, Miranda looked at her—unmistakably, directly at Christina—and smiled. Like neither of them had any reason to be scared.
From Miranda, though, it didn't inspire the same depth of resentful fury as it had from the girls Christina'd killed. On Miranda, the expression looked like confidence rather than naïveté. It lit her up.
That afternoon, Miranda put out another bowl of meat, and this time, Christina waited until she'd gone inside and ate it. Really, it wasn't so bad taking someone's generosity like this. The meat tasted dull, too old to be fresh and too processed to decay, but Christina's belly was full and Miranda was watching her through the window, looking pleased.
She slept in the bushes, content, and in the morning Miranda came outside with more meat, and didn't leave. Cautiously, Christina padded closer; Miranda held her hand out for Christina to sniff. She didn't need to—she already had Miranda's scent—but she nosed at Miranda's palm anyway, indulgent.
Miranda ran a gentle hand over her back, and Christina relaxed into it. She should be eating Miranda, she knew, punishing the presumption that led her to treat a werewolf like something domesticated, but Miranda's hands were soft and her tentative smile made the world feel warmer. It was only with deliberate effort that Christina kept her tail from wagging.
"You're such a pretty girl," Miranda cooed, and something in Christina melted at that. She rolled to expose her underbelly, heedless of the danger; Miranda ruffled her fur with both hands. It was nice in a way Christina hadn't felt before, the vulnerability thrilling and Miranda's hands so warm.
"Do you know any tricks, girl?" Miranda asked. "Can you sit for me? Roll over? Shake hands?"
For Miranda, yes Christina could. Miranda smiled at every new trick, and Christina basked in her approval. It felt right, following her commands. Christina wanted, almost, to be hers, to come in from the vast woods and lie at Miranda's feet, to have Miranda's hands in her fur and Miranda's collar on her neck. She wanted Miranda to leash her and take her on walks and not let her kill people; she wanted Miranda to not even think she might kill people, steady in the confidence that Christina would follow her commands. She wanted to shed her fur and put her mouth on mouth on Miranda's skin, and have Miranda's mouth on her own.
"Such a good, pretty girl," Miranda told her, and she pushed closer and licked at Miranda's face. Miranda pushed her away, laughing, and kissed the top of Christina's head. She wagged her tail, for once not hungry.