Page 127 of The Breaking Point

“No, you can’t give up now,” I muttered to myself. “You’re going to find him. Brady Carmichael, I will hunt you to the ends of the earth if I have to.”

I drove to his apartment and knocked on his door, but there was no answer. I called him, and still—no answer. When one of Brady’s neighbors came outside, I asked her if she knew where Brady was.

“Brady? I don’t think he’s been home for a few days now.”

That made no sense. Where would he be? I racked my brain. The hockey season had ended, so he shouldn’t be away for agame. But maybe he was traveling somewhere? For all I knew, he could be in the jungles of the Amazon.

I got back into my car and drove to Mac’s house. I’d been there only once for a party.

When I got there, though, it was empty. No Mac, no Elodie, and no Brady.

I called Elodie, staving off panic. When she picked up, I didn’t even say hello. “Do you know where Brady is?” I asked.

“Uh, no, I don’t.” I then heard Elodie ask Mac if he knew where Brady was. “Mac doesn’t know, either. Why? Is everything okay?”

“He won’t answer my calls, and he wasn’t at his apartment. I’m actually at your house right now.”

“Oh dear. No, he’s not there. We’ve barely seen him in the past few weeks. Mac keeps trying to get him to come over, but he always says no.”

“When did you last talk to him?”

Mac got on the phone. “Grace? Yeah, I texted with him this morning. I don’t know where he is, but he’s alive, at least.”

I blew out a breath. It wasn’t absolute confirmation that Brady was okay, but at least he’d talked to somebody recently.

I said goodbye to Mac and Elodie and headed over to the Scarlet Rope. Fortunately, it was now later in the evening, when the club would be busy. I went inside wearing just yoga pants and an oversize T-shirt, gaining a few strange looks as I went around asking if anybody had seen Brady.

But nobody had. Then again, the club was all about anonymity. Unless people recognized him as a Blades player, they probably didn’t even know Brady’s name.

I wandered through the club, going to each public viewing room to see whether Brady was there. In one, I caught sight of a man with Brady’s build and hair color.

Oh God, is that him? It looks just like him.

But the man was wearing a mask, so it was hard to tell whether it was Brady. But maybe it was him? Maybe he’d come here and that was why he wasn’t answering his phone.

I sat down, breathing hard. Brady—if this man really was Brady—now had a woman tied up as he whipped her. She was moaning and writhing, her body a canvas of red marks.

I watched as Brady put nipple clamps on the woman. She screamed when he started whipping her harder with a cat-o’-nine-tails.

Brady had never used that on me, but maybe he’d wanted to try something different. Maybe he wanted to do more intense BDSM than I’d ever wanted to do. It made sense, if he’d come here to distract himself.

I felt sick. I watched the scene as it turned into one of rough sex. Brady let the woman down and tossed her onto the bed. He roughly parted her thighs and plunged into her. She squealed and bucked as he fucked her hard, the sound of their bodies slapping filling the room.

I couldn’t watch this. I was about to leave when Brady removed his mask to wipe his face. I realized with a jolt it wasn’t actually Brady.

I bit back a cry. I ran from the room and into a bathroom, locking myself in a stall. I couldn’t stop the tears of relief.

It wasn’t Brady. It wasn’t him.

I was in the stall for so long that someone knocked on the door. “You okay in there?” a woman asked.

I wiped my face and opened the door. “I’m great,” I replied, a wide smile on my face.

The woman gave me a strange look, then shook her head. I rinsed my face and headed home.

When I got to my parents’ house, it was late. To my surprise, though, the first-floor lights were still on.

When I opened the front door, I saw my parents first, sitting in the living room.

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