On "Burn," chapter 12 of Monster after Frankenstein refused to tell him about the bunker at the bottom of the house.
No.
What a simple, two-letter word.
It could have been a little slip of the tongue and nothing more.
And how could he have kept speaking, kept walking down that hall and breathe through his lungs if Raizel had not let him. He half-expected it. Or maybe he wanted it, in some strange, ugly way. If Raizel had wanted it, Frankenstein could have disobeyed just once. And then, from the bottom of his heart, the pit of his stomach, be made to spill every emotion he'd ever felt, speak any phrase he'd ever thought, if Raizel had so much as willed it. That was the power Frankenstein had bestowed upon his master. He wouldn't even have had to lift a finger. Wouldn't so much as had to blink. Frankenstein would have felt his mind betray itself and unravel, slipping on the slightest, frailest whim on Raizel's part.
But Raizel didn't.
Raizel let himself be pushed to the side, his back hitting the frame of the crumbling door as Frankenstein rushed out of the room, still burning somewhere inside of him. Watched him leave down the hall and only followed him out when he knew Frankenstein wasn't going to stop.
