Chapter 42

“Once you make a bet,” Zack supplies, slipping out his jacket and glancing over at me, “you’re bound to it. Whatever you promise, you’re mandated to deliver. Otherwise, you lose your place in the club, and you’re subject to mob justice.”

“Like Derrick?” I ask, and Creed stiffens while Tristan shrugs.

“Who?” he asks, and when he looks up at me with that cold face of his, I actually wonder if he’s already forgotten. “Just don’t bet what you can’t deliver, Charity.” I frown as he leans back and nods his chin at the group. “If she wins, she wants immunity for a whole month. No shit talk, no pranks, no haircuts.” Tristan’s mouth curves in a lordly little smile. “Isn’t that right, Charity?”

“And if you win?” I ask, staring into his eyes and finding it suddenly hard to breathe. He shouldn’t be so pretty, so carved and sculpted, so full of himself. It’s impossible to look away. “What do you want?”

“If I win this round, I want a personal favor from each and every one