Different Breed of Witch: A Saraid Maddox Novel

Lila’s POV

Another night.

Another muffled moan.

Another reminder that I’m nothing but a shadow in this house.

I press the pillow tighter against my ears, but it doesn’t help. Their laughter—hers, especially—seeps through the thin walls, taunting me with every breathy giggle. They’re in the room right opposite mine. My husband and his mistress, making love like I never existed.

Three years of marriage, and not once has he looked at me like I mattered. Like I was a woman he could love. I was just an obligation. An inconvenience. A placeholder for the woman he truly wanted. Claudia. Her name burns in my chest like acid.

He made sure I never forgot. 

“The only reason I’m marrying you,” he’d said coldly, “is because my mother begged me to do it for her sake.”

Sometimes I wonder—did he hate me, or just hated being trapped with someone beneath his standards?

He once told me, expression blank, voice like steel, that when he touches me, it’s only because his body itches when Claudia isn’t around. I still hear it sometimes, echoing in the dark.

Maybe I’m cursed. Maybe this humiliation is my punishment—for being born a poor orphan. For catching Madam Elara’s sympathy and being the girl she forced her son to marry.

She used to check on me more than she ever checked on Liam. I once thought it was kindness. And maybe… it was. Too much kindness. But I welcomed it. It felt like I mattered to someone.

And now, they say I should be grateful.

But what kind of gratitude is this?

A home where I’m invisible? A man who can’t stand the sight of me? A life where the only one listening is the tear-soaked pillow I cry into every night?

I have no one. No family. No friend. No ally in this cold mansion full of secrets.

Just me.

And my breaking heart.

*****

The moans from the other room grow louder, sharper—ripping through the silence like blades. Each sound of pleasure twists deeper into my chest, and I can’t take it anymore.

I throw the sheets out, legs trembling as I get out of bed. I need water. Something. Anything to drown the sound.

The kitchen tiles are cold against my feet, but I barely feel them. I grab the glass, fill it to the brim, and tilt my head back. I gulp it down in one motion, as if the water could wash away the memories haunting me.

But it doesn’t.

Because my mind, cruel as ever, replays that night.

The night curiosity got the better of me.

I had opened the door. Just a crack. Just enough to see.

And I wish to God I hadn’t.

There he was—Liam. My husband. Giving Claudia the best fuck of his life. Not just sex. No. It was passionate. Desperate. Wild. Her legs flung over his shoulder, her back arched off the bed, her laughter wild and sweet and echoing off the walls like some twisted song. 

He held her like she was fragile. Precious. Like she was the only thing that mattered. 

The way I used to dream he’d hold me. 

Sometimes, I’d catch a flicker in his eyes when he looked at me. Not guilt. Never that. But something darker. Like contempt laced with regret. A weight he couldn’t shake.

The images creep back, poisonous and vivid. I squeeze my eyes shut and shake it off, furiously, like I can slam the thoughts out of my skull. Like I can erase the memory by sheer will.

“Finding it hard to sleep?”

The voice cuts through the dark like a blade. I whirl around.

Claudia.

Leaning against the counter like she owns the house—because honestly, at this point, she does. 

That smug smile creeping up her face like sin draped in silk.

But it’s not her words that grab me.

It’s her hair—tousled, parted to the side, the mess of it revealing just how rough, just how sweet she must’ve had it with Liam tonight. And that dress… or whatever’s left of it. It hugs her thighs, droops low enough to show a ridiculous amount of skin. So much that even I—a woman—have to fight the urge to look twice.

She clicks her tongue. “Tsk. Tsk. Tsk.”

Then, with a faux-innocent tone, “You look… anyway, never mind. I just came down to get some juice I’ve been craving. You know how important healthy meals are at this stage.”

She rests a hand on her stomach. The tiny bump.

The cruel reminder of the announcement she made weeks ago.

She’s pregnant.

With Liam’s child.

And she wants me to choke on that truth every single day.

I clear my throat, stepping forward to reach for the sink again. She suddenly lets out a little yelp, her glass nearly tipping over. So dramatic. So rehearsed. 

I know what she’s doing—setting the scene. Playing the victim in a story she wrote herself. So Liam can come rushing in like some hero from a book I’ll never be part of.

But I don’t take the bait.

I step around her and walk back to my room, my spine straight even though everything inside me feels like it’s crumbling.

Once inside, I close the door behind me, leaning against it.

And then… I slide down.

To the floor.

Tears escape before I can stop them. Quiet, raw sobs that rise from somewhere deep. Somewhere hollow.

God, how much longer can I live like this?

I’ve always been alone.

No mother. No father. No family photos. No birthday candles. No one who’s ever said they were proud of me.

Just the name Lila.

Given to me by a nun who said it sounded “sweet enough.”

No past. No future.

Only this aching, curl present.

But then—my hand moves. Without thinking. 

To my stomach.

To the little life growing inside me.

My secret. My miracle.

It’s not like I can’t have Liam’s child…

I pause, breath trembling.

I’m just terrified of what might happen if he finds out I already am.