Sussex.

Somewhere in the countryside.

You had been a student at an art school when he first saw you. He honestly felt like his heart had stopped. From that moment on, the only thing in his mind was you. He had a lot of free time, not having to work because of the masses of insurance money he had collected when he turned eighteen from his parents' deaths- he didn't do much, aside from his butterfly collection.

There were few things Peter Fowles loved in life, and butterflies were at the top of that list, second only to you. You had said a few words in passing- he had held a door open for you once, you had lit his cigar on rainy night- but it didn't satisfy him anymore.

He needed you to himself.

So in a dreamlike haze, he had purchased a nice cottage in the countryside a ways from London, furnished it quite lavishly, worrying and fretting and changing the wallpaper and paintings quite often, afraid you wouldn't like it. He had renovated the basement, putting in a pretty bathroom and a cozy bed and filling a bookshelf with all kinds of books, putting up paintings and lights and ivy, getting everything pristine and ready for its new occupant.

He had done it quite humanely, he thought, gently pulling you into the alley and sedating you via a chloroformed rag. Of course he worried what you would think, but he loaded you into his car and had gently settled you into your new home.

You had awoken in a haze, in a room you didn't recognize, and a few moments later the door at the top of the stairs creaked open and he stepped down slowly, watching you watch him, fascination and terror in his eyes as he sat across from you and set you a cup of tea on the small coffee table between you.

"I- It's nice to...Hi. Good morning," he faltered, swallowing roughly.

"Please don't scream and please don't try to run. It's no use."