Honeyed Pasture i've got a good feeling; it doesn't happen very often

Wren's breathing comes in short, shallow pants, slumping down into a sit as their shared prize is brought over and ready to be eaten. She is assertive in the fact that she is who gets the first bite, tearing at flesh with crimson-stained canines while their kill is still warm. God, she couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten anything of substance. 
You've got some skill, there, she comments through closed teeth, swallowing a chunk of muscle before her eyes meet his again. not bad for only the two of us, eh? 

Wren sits back after a while, lazily slinking to the ground and curling her legs under her chest. She'd had her fill; having gone with so little for so long made her appetite seemingly shrink, for the fear of throwing it back up. She spends this time cleaning a splash of blood from a foreleg, watching as it fades, the metallic taste lingering in her mouth. 

She is elusive in her staring, careful to keep it discreet. What an odd coincidence for a man like him to have swooped in when she needed him. He is graceful in his own right, an unbending confidence that provides security - but she is not a damsel in need of saving. Or so she likes to think of herself. 

I'm shocked you don't have a pack of your own, there's a pause, and then, or a woman.